THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 


THE 

BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

A  Novel 


BY 

LEE  WILSON  DODD 


"Though  she  track  the 
,  Though  she  breast  the  crags, 

Choosing  no  path — 

Her  kirtle  tears  not, 

Her  ankles  gleam, 

Her  sandals  are  silver." 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1920. 
BY  E.   P.   DUTTON  &   COMPANY 


Att  Rights  Reserved 


first  printing April,  19SO 

Second  printing April,  19SQ 

Third  printing June,  1920 

Fourth  printing June,  1910 

Fifth  printing July,  19SO 

Sixth   printing July,  19SO 

Seventh  printing. . .  .August,  19SO 

Eighth  printing August,  1980 

Ninth  printing August,  l&SO 

Tenth  printing August,  1980 

Eleventh  printing . .  .August,  1980 

Twelfth  printing August,  1920 

Thirteenth  printing.  .August,  1980 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


JOSEPHI   FRATRIBUS 

NON   QUOD   VOLUI 
BED    QUOD    POTUI 


2129179 


CONTENTS 

PA.GH 

THE  FIRST  GHAPTEB 1 

THE  SECOND  CHAPTER 24 

THE  THIRD  CHAPTER 62 

THE  FOURTH  CHAPTER .     .  131 

THE  FIFTH  CHAPTER 153 

THE  SIXTH  CHAPTER 221 

THE  LAST  CHAPTER .  238 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 


THE  FIRST  CHAPTER 


IT  happens  that  I  twice  saw  Susan's  mother,  one  of  those 
soilefl  rags  of  humanity  used  by  careless  husbands  for 
wiping  their  boots;  but  Susan  does  not  remember  her. 
John  Stuart  Mill  studied  Greek  at  three,  and  there  is 
a  Russian  author  who  recalls  being  weaned  as  the  first  of 
his  many  bitter  experiences.  Either  Susan's  mental  life 
did  not  waken  so  early  or  the  record  has  faded.  She  re- 
members only  the  consolate  husband,  her  father;  remem- 
bers him  only  too  well.  The  backs  of  his  square,  angry- 
looking  hands  were  covered  with  an  unpleasant  growth 
of  reddish  bristles ;  his  nostrils  were  hairy,  too,  and  seemed 
formed  by  Nature  solely  for  the  purpose  of  snorting  with 
wrath.  It  must  not  be  held  against  Susan  that  she  never 
loved  her  father;  he  was  not  created  to  inspire  the  softer 
emotions.  Nor  am  I  altogether  certain  just  why  he  was 
created  at  all. 

Nevertheless,  Robert  Blake  was  in  his  soberer  hours — 
say,  from  Tuesdays  to  Fridays — an  expert  mechanic,  thor- 
oughly conversant  with  the  interior  lack  of  economy  of 
most  makes  of  automobiles.  He  had  charge  of  the  repair 
department  of  the  Eureka  Garage,  New  Haven,  where  my 
not-too-robust  touring  car  of  those  primitive  days  spent, 
during  the  spring  of  1907,  many  weeks  of  interesting  and 
expensive  invalidism.  I  forget  how  many  major  opera- 
tions it  underwent. 

1 


2  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

It  was  not  at  the  Eureka  Garage,  however,  that  I  first 
met  Bob  Blake.  Nine  years  before  I  there  found  him 
again,  I  had  defended  him  in  court — as  it  happens,  suc- 
cessfully— on  a  charge  of  assault  with  intent  to  kill.  That 
was  almost  my  first  case,  and  not  far — thank  heaven — 
from  my  last.  Bob's  defense,  I  remember,  was  assigned 
to  me  by  a  judge  who  had  once  borrowed  fifty  dollars 
from  my  father,  which  he  never  repaid;  at  least,  not  in 
cash.  There  are  more  convenient  methods.  True,  my 
father  was  no  longer  living  at  the  time  I  was  appointed 
to  defend  Bob ;  but  that  is  a  detail. 

Susan  was  then  four  years  old.  I  can't  say  I  recall  her, 
if  I  even  laid  eyes  on  her.  But  Mrs.  Bob  appeared  as  a 
witness,  at  my  request — it  was  all  but  her  final  appear- 
ance, poor  woman;  she  died  of  an  embolism  within  a 
week — and  I  remember  she  told  the  court  that  a  kinder 
husband  and  father  than  Bob  had  never  existed.  I  re- 
member, too,  that  the  court  pursed  its  lips  and  the  gen- 
tlemen of  the  jury  grinned  approvingly,  for  Mrs.  Bob 
could  not  easily  conceal  something  very  like  the  remains 
of  a  purple  eye,  which  she  attributed  to  hearing  a  suspi- 
cious noise  one  night  down  cellar,  a  sort  of  squeaking 
noise,  and  to  falling  over  the  cat  on  her  tour  of  investiga- 
tion— with  various  circumstantial  minutiae  of  no  present 
importance. 

The  important  thing  is,  that  Bob  went  scot-free  and 
was  as  nearly  grateful  as  his  temperament  permitted. 
His  assault — with  an  umbrella  stand — had  been  upon  a 
fellow  reveller  of  no  proved  worth  to  the  community,  and 
perhaps  this  may  have  influenced  the  jury's  unexpected 
verdict. 

Of  Susan  herself  my  first  impression  was  gained  at  the 
Eureka  Garage.  Bob  Blake,  just  then,  was  lying  be- 
neath my  car,  near  which  I  hovered  listening  to  his 
voluble  but  stereotyped  profanity.  He  had  lost  the  nut 
from  a  bolt,  and,  unduly  constricted,  sought  it  vainly, 
while  his  tongue  followed  the  line  of  least  resistance.  I 
was  marveling  at  the  energy  of  his  wrath  and  the  poverty 


of  his  imagination,  when  I  became  aware  of  a  small  being 
beside  me,  in  plaid  calico.  She  had  eager  black  eyes — ter- 
rier's eyes — in  a  white,  whimsical  little  face.  One  very 
long  and  very  thin  black  pigtail  dangled  over  her  left 
shoulder  and  down  across  her  flat  chest  to  her  waist, 
where  it  was  tied  with  a  shoe  string  and  ended  lankly, 
without  even  the  semblance  of  a  curl.  In  her  right  hand 
#he  bore  a  full  dinner  pail,  and  with  her  left  thumb 
'me  pointed  toward  the  surging  darkness  beneath  my 
car. 

"Say,  mister,  please,"  said  the  small  being,  "if  I  was  to 
put  this  down,  would  you  mind  telling  him  his  dinner's 
oome?" 

' '  Not  a  bit, ' '  I  responded.    ' '  Are  you  Bob 's  youngster  ? ' ' 

"I'm  Susan  Blake,"  she  answered;  and  very  softly 
placed  the  dinner  pail  on  the  step  of  the  car. 

"Why  don't  you  wait  and  see  your  father?"  I  sug- 
gested. "He'll  come  up  for  air  in  a  minute." 

"That's  why  I'm  going  now,"  said  Susan. 

Whereupon  she  gave  a  single  half  skip — the  very  ghost 
of  a  skip — then  walked  demurely  from  me  and  out  through 
the  great  door. 


Bob  Blake,  in  those  days,  lived  in  a  somewhat  dilapi- 
dated four-room  house,  off  toward  the  wrong  end  of  Birch 
Street.  His  family  arrangements  were  peculiar.  He  had 
never  married  again;  but  not  very  long  after  his  wife's 
death  a  dnil-eyed,  rather  mussy  young  woman,  with  a 
fondness  fcr  roivrv  pots,  had  taken  up  her  abode  with 
him — to  the  scandal  and  fascination  of  the  neighborhood. 
It  was  an  outrage,  of  course!  With  a  child  in  the  house, 
too!  Something  ought  to  be  done  about  it! 

Yet,  oddly  enough,  nothing  that  much  worried  Bob  ever 
was  done  about  it,  reckoning  the  various  shocked-and- 
grieved  forms  of  conversation  as  nothing.  As  he  never 
tired  of  asserting,  Bob  didn't  give  a  damn  for  the  cackle 
of  a  lot  of  hens.  He  guessed  he  knew  his  way  about; 


4  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

and  so  did  Pearl.  Let  the  damned  hens  cackle  their  heads 
off;  he  was  satisfied! 

And  so,  eventually,  I  am  forced  to  believe,  were  the 
hens.  In  the  earlier  days  of  the  scandal  there  was  much 
clitter-clatter  of  having  the  law  on  him,  serving  papers, 
and  the  like;  but,  as  hen  cackle  sometimes  will,  it  came 
to  precisely  naught.  Nor  am  I  certain  that,  as  the  years 
passed,  the  neighborhood  did  not  grow  a  little  proud  of 
its  one  crimson  patch  of  wickedness ;  I  am  reasonably  cer- 
tain, indeed,  that  more  than  one  drab  life  took  on  a  little 
borrowed  flush  of  excitement  from  its  proximity. 

Of  course  no  decent,  God-fearing  woman  would  ever 
greet  either  Bob  or  Pearl;  but  every  time  one  passed 
either  of  them  without  a  nod  or  a  "How's  things  to-day?" 
it  gave  one  something  to  talk  about,  at  home,  or  over 
any  amicable  fence. 

As  for  the  men,  they  too  were  forbidden  to  speak;  but 
men,  most  of  them,  are  unruly  creatures  if  at  large.  You 
can't  trust  them  safely  five  minutes  beyond  the  sound  of 
your  voice. 

There  was  even  one  man,  old  Heinze,  proprietor  of  the 
Birch  Street  grocery  store,  who  now  and  then  cautiously 
put  forth  a  revolutionary  sentiment. 

"Dey  lifs  alvays  togedder — like  man  unt  vife — nod? 
Vere  iss  der  diffurunz,  Mrs.  Shay?" 

"Shame  on  you  for  them  words,  Mr.  Heinze!" 

"Aber" — with  a  slow,  wide  smile — "vere  iss  der  diffur- 
unz,  Mrs.  Shay?  I  leaf  id  to  you?" 

That  Pearl  and  Bob  lived  always  together  cannot  be 
denied,  and  perhaps  they  also  lived  as  some  men  and  their 
lawful  wives  are  accustomed  to  live — off  toward  the  wrong 
end  of  city  streets;  and  occasionally,  no  doubt,  toward 
the  right  end  of  them  as  well.  Midweek,  things  wore 
along  dully  enough,  but  over  Sunday  came  drink  and 
ructions.  Susan  says  she  has  never  been  able  to  un- 
derstand why  Sunday  happens  to  be  called  a  day  of 
rest.  The  day  of  arrest,  she  was  once  guilty  of  nam- 
ing it. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  5 

Bob's  neighbors,  I  fear,  were  not  half  so  scandalized 
by  his  week-end  drunkenness  as  by  what  Mrs.  Perkins — 
three  doors  nearer  the  right  end  of  Birch  Street — in- 
variably called  his  "brazen  immorality."  Intoxication 
was  not  a  rare  vice  in  that  miscellaneous  block  or  two  of 
factory  operatives.  Nor  can  it  be  said  that  immorality, 
in  the  sense  of  Mrs.  Perkins,  was  so  much  rare  as  it  was 
nervously  concealed.  The  unique  quality  of  Bob's  sin  lay 
in  its  brazen  element;  that  was  what  stamped  him  pe- 
culiarly as  a  social  outlaw. 

Bob  accepted  this  position,  if  sober,  with  a  grim  disre- 
gard. He  had  a  bitter,  lowering  nature  at  best,  and  when 
not  profane  was  taciturn.  As  for  Pearl,  social  outlawry 
may  be  said  to  have  been  her  native  element.  She  had  a 
hazy  mind  in  a  lazy  body,  and  liked  better  than  most 
things  just  to  sit  in  a  rocking-chair  and  polish  her  finger 
nails,  as  distinguished  from  cleaning  them.  Only  the 
guiltless  member  of  this  family  group  really  suffered 
from  its  low  social  estate^  but  she  suffered  acutely.  Little 
Susan  could  not  abide  being  a  social  outlaw. 

True,  she  was  not  always  included  in  the  general  con- 
demnation of  her  family  by  the  grown-ups ;  but  the  chil- 
dren were  ruthless.  They  pointed  fingers,  and  there  was 
much  conscious  giggling  behind  her  back;  while  some  of 
the  daintier  little  girls — the  very  little  girls  whom  Susan 
particularly  longed  to  chum  with — had  been  forbidden  to 
play  with  "that  child,"  and  were  not  at  all  averse  to  tell- 
ing her  so,  flatly,  with  tiny  chins  in  air  and  a  devastating 
expression  of  rectitude  on  their  smug  little  faces.  At 
such  times  Susan  would  fight  back  impending  cataracts, 
stick  her  own  freckled  nose  toward  tte  firmament,  and 
even,  I  regret  to  say,  if  persistently  harassed,  thrust  forth 
a  rigid  pink  tongue.  This,  Susan  has  smce  informed  me, 
is  the  embryonic  state  of  "swearing  like  anything." 

The  little  boys,^  on  the  whole,  were  better.  They  often 
said  cruel  things,  but  Susan  felt  that  they  said  them  in  a 
quite  different  spirit  from  their  instinctively  snobbish  and 
Grundyish  sisters — said  them  merely  by  way  of  bravado, 


6  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

or  just  for  the  fun  of  seeing  whether  or  not  she  would  cry. 
And  then  they  often  let  her  join  in  their  games,  and  on 
those  happy  occasions  treated  her  quite  as  an  equal,  with 
an  impartial  and,  to  Susan,  entirely  blissful  roughness. 
Susan  early  decided  that  she  liked  boys  much  better  than 
girls. 

There  was,  for  example,  Jimmy  Kane,  whose  widowed 
mother  took  in  washing,  and  so  never  had  any  time  to 
clean  up  her  huddled  flat,  over  Heinze's  grocery  store,  or 
her  family  of  four — two  boys  and  two  girls.  No  one  ever 
saw  skin,  as  in  itself  it  really  is,  on  the  faces  of  Mrs. 
Kane's  children,  and  Jimmy  was  always,  if  comparison  be 
possible,  the  grimiest  of  the  brood.  For  some  reason 
Jimmy  always  had  a  perpetual  slight  cold,  and  his  funny 
flat  button  of  a  nose  wept,  winter  and  summer  alike, 
though  never  into  an  unnecessary  handkerchief.  His 
coat-sleeve  served,  even  if  its  ministrations  did  not  add 
to  the  tidiness  of  his  countenance. 

Susan  often  wished  she  might  scrub  him,  just  to  see 
what  he  really  looked  like;  for  she  idolized  Jimmy.  Not 
that  Jimmy  ever  had  paid  any  special  attention  to  her, 
except  on  one  occasion.  It  was  merely  that  he  accepted 
her  as  part  of  the  human  scheme  of  things,  which  in  itself 
would  almost  have  been  enough  to  win  Susan's  affectionate 
admiration.  But  one  day,  as  I  have  hinted,  he  became  the 
god  of  her  idolatry. 

The  incident  is  not  precisely  idyllic.  A  certain  Joe — 
Giuseppe  Gonfarone;  cetat.  14 — whose  father  peddled 
fruit  and  vegetables,  had  recently  come  into  the  neighbor- 
hood; a  black-curled,  brown-eyed  little  devil,  already  far 
too  wise  in  the  manifold  unseemliness  of  this  sad  old 
planet.  Joe  was  strong,  stocky,  aggressive,  and  soon  posed 
as  something  of  a  bully  among  the  younger  boys  along 
Birch  Street.  Within  less  than  a  month  he  had  infected 
the  minds  of  many  with  a  new  and  rich  vocabulary  of 
oaths  and  smutty  words.  Joe  was  not  of  the  uncon- 
sciously foul-mouthed;  he  relished  his  depravity.  In  fact, 
voungster  as  he  was,  Joe  had  in  him  the  makings  of  that 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  7 

slimiest  product  of  our  cities — the  street  pimp,  or  cadet. 

It  was  one  fine  spring  day,  three  years  or  so  before  I  met 
Susan  in  the  Eureka  Garage,  that  Joe,  with  a  group  of 
Birch  Street  boys,  was  playing  marbles  for  keeps,  just  at 
the  bottom  of  the  long  incline  which  carries  Birch  Street 
down  to  the  swamp  land  and  general  dump  at  the  base 
of  East  Rock.  Susan  was  returning  home  from  Orange 
Street,  after  bearing  her  father  his  full  dinner  pail,  and 
as  she  came  up  to  the  boys  she  halted  on  one  foot,  using 
the  toe  of  her  free  foot  meanwhile  to  scratch  mosquito 
bites  upward  along  her  supporting  shin. 

"H'lo,  Susan!"  called  Jimmy  Kane,  with  his  perfunc- 
tory good  nature.  " What's  bitin'  you?" 

Then  it  was  his  turn  to  knuckle-down.  Susan,  still 
balanced  cranelike,  watched  him  eager-eyed,  and  was  so 
delighted  when  he  knocked  a  fine  fat  reeler  of  Joe's  out 
of  the  ring,  jumping  up  with  a  yell  of  triumph  to  pocket 
it,  that  she  too  gave  a  shrill  cheer:  "Oh,  goody!  I  knew 
you'd  win!" 

The  note  of  ecstasy  in  her  tone  infuriated  Joe.  * '  Say ! ' ' 
he  shrieked.  "You  getta  hell  outta  here!" 

Susan's  smile  vanished;  her  white,  even  teeth — she  had 
all  her  front  ones,  she  tells  me;  she  was  ten — clicked 
audibly  together. 

"It's  no  business  of  yours!"  she  retorted. 

"You're  right;  it  ain't!"  This  from  Jimmy,  still  in 
high  good  humor.  "You  stay  here  if  you  want.  You're 
as  good  as  him!" 

"Who's  as  good  as  me?" 

"She  is!" 

"Her?"  Joe's  lips  curled  back.  He  turned  to  the  other 
boys,  who  had  all  scrambled  to  their  feet  by  this  time 
and,  instinctively  scenting  mischief,  were  standing  in  a 
sort  of  ring.  "He  says  she's  good  as  me!" 

Two  of  the  smallest  boys  tittered,  from  pure  excite- 
ment. Susan's  nose  went  up. 

"  I  'm  better.    I  'm  not  a  dago ! ' ' 


8  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Joe  leaped  toward  Susan  and  thrust  his  dense,  bull-like 
head  forward,  till  his  eyes  were  glaring  into  hers. 

"Mebbe  I  live  lika  you — eh?  Mebbe  I  live,"  cried  Joe, 
"with  a  dirty  whore!" 

There  was  a  gasp  from  the  encircling  boys  as  Susan 
fell  back  from  this  word,  which  she  did  not  wholly  com- 
prehend, but  whose  vileness  she  felt,  somehow,  in  her  very 
flesh.  Joe,  baring  gorilla  teeth,  burst  into  coarse  jubila- 
tion. 

It  was  just  at  this  point  that  Jimmy  Kane,  younger 
than  Joe  by  a  year  or  more,  and  far  slighter,  jumped 
on  the  little  ruffian — alas,  from  behind ! — and  dealt  him  as 
powerful  a  blow  on  the  head  as  he  could  compass ;  a  blow 
whose  effectiveness,  I  reluctantly  admit,  was  enhanced 
by  the  half  brick  with,  which  Jimmy  had  first  of  all  pru- 
dently provided  himself.  Joe  Gonfarone  went  to  earth, 
inert,  but  bleeding  profusely. 

There  was  a  scuttling  of  frightened  feet  in  every  direc- 
tion. Susan  herself  did  not  stop  running  until  she  reached 
the  very  top  of  the  Birch  Street  incline.  Then  she  looked 
back,  her  eyes  lambent,  her  heart  throbbing,  not  alone 
from  the  rapid  ascent.  Yes,  there  was  Jimmy — her 
Jimmy! — kneeling  in  the  dust  by  the  still  prostrate  Joe. 
Susan  could  not  hear  him,  but  she  knew  somehow  from 
his  attitude  that  he  was  scared  to  death,  and  that  he  was 
asking  Joe  if  he  was  hurt  much.  She  agonized  with  her 
champion,  feeling  none  the  less  proud  of  him,  and  she 
waited  for  him  at  the  top  of  the  rise,  hoping  to  thank 
him,  longing  to  kiss  his  hands. 

But  Jimmy,  when  he  did  pass  her,  went  by  without  a 
glance,  at  top  speed.  He  was  bound  for  a  doctor.  So 
Susan  never  really  managed  to  thank  Jimmy  at  all.  She 
merely  idolized  him  in  secret,  a  process  which  proved, 
however,  fairly  heart-warming  and,  in  the  main,  satis- 
factory. 

It  took  three  stitches  to  mend  Joe 's  head — a  fact  famous 
in  the  junior  annals  of  Birch  Street  for  some  years — 
and  soon  after  he  appeared,  somewhat  broken  in  spirit, 


THE  BOOK  OP  SUSAN  9 

in  the  street  again,  his  parents  moved  him,  Margharita 
and  the  sloe-eyed  twins  to  Bridgeport — very  much,  be  it 
admitted,  to  the  relief  of  Jimmy  Kane,  who  had  lived  for 
three  weeks  nursing  a  lonely  fear  of  dark  reprisals. 

m 

There  was  one  thing  about  Bob  Blake's  four-room  house 
— it  exactly  fitted  his  family.  The  floor  plan  was  simple 
and  economically  efficient.  Between  the  monolithic  door 
slab — relic  of  a  time  when  Bob's  house  had  been  frankly 
"in  the  country" — and  the  public  street  lay  a  walk 
formed  of  a  single  plank  supported  on  chance-set  bricks. 
From  the  door  slab  one  stepped  through  the  front  door- 
way directly  into  the  parlor.  Beyond  the  parlor  lay  the 
kitchen,  from  which  one  could  pass  out  through  a  narrow 
door  to  a  patch  of  weed-grown  back  yard.  A  ladderlike 
stair  led  up  from  one  side  of  the  kitchen,  opposite  to  the 
single  window  and  the  small  coal  range.  At  the  top  of 
the  stair  was  a  slit  of  unlighted  hallway  with  a  door  near 
either  end  of  it.  The  door  toward  Birch  Street  gave 
upon  the  bedroom  occupied  by  Bob  and  Pearl;  the  rear- 
ward door  led  to  Susan's  sternly  ascetic  cubiculum.  No 
one  of  these  four  rooms  could  be  described  as  spacious, 
but  the  parlor  and  Bob's  bedroom  may  have  been  twelve 
by  fifteen  or  thereabouts.  Susan's  quarters  were  a  scant 
ten  by  ten. 

The  solider  and  more  useful  pieces  of  furniture  in  the 
house  belonged  to  the  regime  of  Susan's  mother — the  great 
black- walnut  bed  which  almost  filled  the  front  bedroom; 
Susan's  single  iron  cot  frame;  the  parlor  table  with  its 
marble  top;  the  melodeon;  the  kitchen  range;  and  the 
deal  table  in  the  kitchen,  upon  which,  impartially,  food 
was  prepared  and  meals  were  served.  To  these  respectable 
properties  Pearl  had  added  from  time  to  time  certain 
other  objects  of  interest  or  art. 

Thus,  in  the  parlor,  there  was  a  cane  rocking-chair, 
gilded ;  and  on  the  wall  above  the  melodeon  hung  a  banjo 


10  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

suspended  from  a  nail  by  a  broad  sash  of  soiled  blue  rib- 
bon. On  the  drumhead  of  the  banjo  someone  had  painted 
a  bunch  of  nondescript  flowers,  and  Pearl  always  claimed 
these  as  her  own  handiwork,  wrought  in  happier  days. 
This  was  her  one  eagerly  contested  point  of  pride ;  for  Bob, 
when  in  liquor,  invariably  denied  the  possibility  of  her 
ever  having  painted  "that  there  bouquet."  This  flat 
denial  was  always  the  starting  point  for  those  more  vio- 
lent Sunday-night  quarrels,  which  had  done  so  much  to 
reduce  the  furniture  of  the  house  to  its  stouter,  more  im- 
perishable elements. 

During  the  brief  interval  between  the  death  of  Susan's 
mother  and  the  arrival  of  Pearl,  Bob  had  placed  his  do- 
mestic affairs  in  the  hands  of  an  old  negro-woman,  who 
came  in  during  the  day  to  clean  up,  keep  an  eye  on 
Susan  and  prepare  Bob's  dinner.  Most  of  the  hours 
during  Bob's  absence  this  poor  old  creature  spent  in  a 
rocking-chair,  nodding  in  and  out  of  sleep;  and  it  was 
rather  baby  Susan,  sprawling  about  the  kitchen  floor, 
who  kept  an  eye  on  her,  .than  the  reverse.  Pearl's  in- 
stallation had  changed  all  that.  Bob  naturally  expected 
any  woman  he  chose  to  support  to  work  for  her  board  and 
lodging;  and  it  may  be  that  at  first  Pearl  had  been  too 
grateful  for  any  shelter  to  risk  jeopardizing  her  good  luck 
by  shirking.  There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  for  a  while 
she  did  her  poor  utmost  to  keep  house — but  the  sloven 
in  her  was  too  deeply  rooted  not  to  flower. 

By  the  time  Susan  was  six  or  seven  the  interior  condi- 
tion of  Bob 's  house  was  too  crawlingly  unpleasant  to  bear 
exact  description ;  and  even  Bob,  though  callous  enough  in 
such  matters,  began  to  have  serious  thoughts  of  giving 
Pearl  the  slip — not  to  mention  his  landlord — and  of  run- 
ning off  with  Susan  to  some  other  city,  where  he  could 
make  a  fresh  start  and  perhaps  contrive  now  and  then  to 
get  something  decent  to  eat  set  b afore  him.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  him  to  give  Susan  the  slip  as  well — which  would 
have  freed  his  hands ;  not  because  he  had  a  soft  spot  some- 
where for  the  child,  nor  because  he  felt  toward  her  any  spe- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  11 

cial  sense  of  moral  obligation.  Simply,  it  never  occurred  to 
him.  Susan  was  his  kid;  and  if  he  went  she  went  with 
him,  along  with  his  pipe,  his  shop  tools,  and  his  set  of 
six  English  razors — his  dearest  possession,  of  which  he  was 
jealously  and  irascibly  proud. 

But,  as  it  happens,  Bob  never  acted  upon  this  slowly 
forming  desire  to  escape;  the  desire  was  quietly  checked 
and  insensibly  receded;  and  for  this  Susan  herself  was 
directly  responsible. 

Very  early  in  life  she  began  to  supplement  Pearl 's  feeble 
housewifery,  but  it  was  not  until  her  ninth  year  that 
Susan  decided  to  bring  about  a  domestic  revolution. 
Whether  or  no  hatred  of  dirt  be  inheritable,  I  leave  to 
biologists,  merely  thumbnailing  two  facts  for  their  consid- 
eration: Susan's  mother  had  hated  dirt  with  an  unap- 
peasable hatred;  her  nightly,  after-supper,  insensate  pur- 
suit of  imaginary  cobwebs  had  been  one  of  Bob's  choicest 
grievances  against  her.  And  little  Susan  hated  dirt,  in 
all  its  forms,  with  an  almost  equal  venom,  but  with  a 
brain  at  once  more  active  and  more  unreeling.  She  had 
good  reason  to  hate  it.  She  must  either  have  hated  it  or 
been  subdued  to  it.  For  five  years,  more  or  less,  she  had 
lived  in  the  midst  of  dirt  and  suffered.  It  had  seemed 
to  her  one  of  the  inexpugnable  evils  of  existence,  like 
mosquitoes,  or  her  father's  temper,  or  the  smell  of  Pearl's 
cheap  talcum  powder  when  warmed  by  the  fumes  of  cook- 
ing cabbage.  But  gradually  it  came  upon  her  that  dirt 
only  accumulated  in  the  absence  of  a  will  to  removal. 

Once  her  outreaching  mind  had  grasped — without  word- 
ily formulating — this  physical  and  moral  law,  her  course 
was  plain.  Since  the  will  to  removal  was  dormant  or  miss- 
ing in  Pearl,  she  must  supply  it.  Within  the  scope  of  her 
childish  strength,  she  did  supply  it.  Susan  insists  that  it 
took  her  two  years  merely  to  overcome  the  handicap  of 
Pearl's  neglect.  Her  self-taught  technique  was  faulty; 
proper  tools  were  lacking.  There  was  a  bucket  which, 
when  filled,  she  could  not  lift ;  a  broom  that  tripped  her ; 
high  corners  she  could  not  reach — corners  she  had  to  grow 


12  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

up  to,  even  with  the  aid  of  a  chair.  But  in  the  end  she 
triumphed.  By  the  time  she  was  thirteen — she  was  thirteen 
when  I  first  saw  in  the  Eureka  Garage — Bob 's  four  rooms 
were  spotless  six  and  one-half  days  out  of  every  seven. 

Even  Pearl,  in  her  flaccid  way,  approved  the  change. 
"It  beats  hell,"  she  remarked  affably  to  Bob  one  night, 
"how  that  ugly  little  monkey  likes  to  scrub  things.  She's 
a  real  help  to  me,  that  child  is.  But  no  comp'ny.  And 
she's  a  sight." 

"Well,"  growled  Bob,  "she  comes  by  that  honest.  So 
was  the  old  woman."  They  were  annoyed  when  Susan, 
sitting  by  them,  for  the  first  time  within  their  memory 
burst  into  flooding,  uncontrollable  tears. 

IV 

I  should  probably,  in  my  own  flaccid  way,  have  lost  all 
track  of  Susan,  if  it  had  not  been  for  certain  ugly  things 
that  befell  in  Bob 's  four-room  house  one  breathless  evening 
— June  twentieth  of  the  year  1907.  It  is  a  date  stamped 
into  my  consciousness  like  a  notarial  seal.  For  one  thing 
it  happened  to  be  my  birthday — my  thirty-third,  which  I 
was  not  precisely  celebrating,  since  it  was  also  the  anni- 
versary of  the  day  my  wife  had  left  me,  two  years  before. 
Nor  was  I  entirely  pleased  to  have  become,  suddenly, 
thirty-three.  I  counted  it  the  threshold  of  middle-age. 
Now  that  eleven  years  have  passed,  and  with  them  my 
health  and  the  world's  futile  pretense  at  peace,  I  am 
feeling  younger. 

This  book  is  about  Susan,  but  it  will  be  simpler  if  you 
know  something,  too,  concerning  her  scribe.  Fortunately 
there  is  not  much  that  it  will  be  needful  to  tell. 

I  was — in  those  bad,  grossly  comfortable  old  days — that 
least  happy  of  Nature's  experiments,  a  man  whose  in- 
herited income  permitted  him  to  be  an  idler,  and  whose 
tastes  urged  him  to  write  precious  little  essays  about 
precious  little  for  the  more  precious  reviews.  My  half- 
hearted attempt  to  practice  law  I  had  long  abandoned.  I 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  13 

lived  in  a  commodious,  inherited  mansion  on  Hillhouse 
Avenue — an  avenue  which  in  all  fairness  must  be  called 
aristocratic,  since  it  has  no  wrong  end  to  it.  It  is  right  at 
both  ends,  so,  naturally,  though  broad,  it  is  not  very  long. 
My  grandfather,  toward  the  end  of  a  profitably  ill-spent 
life,  built  this  mansion  of  sad-colored  stone  in  a  some- 
what mixed  Italian  style;  my  father  filled  it  with  expen- 
sive and  unsightly  movables — the  spoils  of  a  grand  Euro- 
pean tour;  and  I,  in  my  turn,  had  emptied  it  of  these 
treasures  and  refilled  it  with  my  own  carefully  chosen 
collection  of  rare  furniture,  rare  Oriental  carpets,  rare 
first  editions,  and  costly  objets  d'art.  This  collection  I 
then  anxiously  believed,  and  do  still  in  part  believe,  to 
be  beautiful — though  I  am  no  longer  haunted  by  an  earlier 
fear  lest  the  next  generation  should  repudiate  my  taste 
and  reverse  my  opinion.  Let  the  auction  rooms  of  1960 
decide.  Neither  in  flesh  nor  in  spirit  shall  I  attend  them. 

The  tragi-comedy  of  my  luckless  marriage  I  shall  not 
stop  here  to  explain,  but  its  rather  mysterious  ending 
had  at  first  largely  cut  me  off  from  my  old  family  friends 
and  my  socially  correct  acquaintances.  When  Gertrude 
left  me,  their  sympathies,  or  their  sense  of  security,  went 
with  her.  I  can  hardly  blame  them.  There  had  been  no 
glaring  scandal,  but  the  fault  was  inferentially  mine.  To 
speak  quite  brutally,  I  did  not  altogether  regret  their  loss. 
Too  many  of  them  had  bored  me  for  too  many  years.  I 
was  glad  to  rely  more  on  the  companionship  of  certain 
writers  and  painters  which  my  scribbling  had  quietly 
won  for  me,  here  and  in  France.  I  traveled  about  a7  good 
deal.  When  at  home,  I  kept  my  guest  rooms  filled — often, 
in  the  horrid  phrase,  with  "visitors  of  distinction." 

In  this  way  I  became  a  social  problem,  locally,  of  some 
magnitude.  Visitors  of  distinction — even  when  of  eccen- 
tric distinction — cannot  easily  be  ignored  in  a  university 
town.  Thus  it  made  it  a  little  awkward,  perhaps,  that  I 
should  so  often  prove  to  be  their  host ;  a  little — less,  on  the 
whole,  than  one  would  suppose.  Within  two  years — just 
following  Ballou's  brief  stay  with  me,  on  his  way  to  ii)' 


14  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

troduce  that  now  forgotten  nine-days  wonder,  Polymor- 
phous Prose,  among  initiates  of  the  Plymouth  Rock  Poetry 
Guild,  at  Boston — my  slight  remaining  ineligibility  was 
tacitly  and  finally  ignored.  The  old  family  friends  began 
to  hint  that  Gertrude,  though  a  splendid  woman,  had  al- 
ways been  a  little  austere.  Possibly  there  were  faults  on 
both  sides.  One  never  knew. 

And  it  was  just  at  this  hour  of  social  reestablishment 
that  my  birthday  swung  round  again,  for  the  thirty-third 
time,  and  brought  with  it  a  change  in  my  outer  life  which 
was  to  lead  on  to  even  greater  changes  in  all  my  modes 
of  thinking  and  feeling.  Odd,  that  a  drunken  quarrel 
in  a  four-room  house  toward  the  wrong  end  of  Birch- 
Street  could  so  affect  the  destiny  of  a  luxurious  dilettante, 
living  at  the  very  center  of  bonded  respectability,  in  a 
mansion  of  sad-colored  stone,  on  a  short  broad  avenue 
which  is  right  at  both  ends! 


"Never  in  this  (obviously  outcast)  world!"  grumbled 
Bob  Blake,  bringing  his  malletlike  fist  down  on  the  mar- 
ble top  of  the  parlor  table. 

The  blow  made  his  half -filled  glass  jump  and  clinkle; 
so  he  emptied  it  slowly,  then  poured  in  four  fingers  more, 
forgetting  to  add  water  this  time,  and  sullenly  pushed 
the  bottle  across  to  Pearl.  But  Pearl  wras  fretful.  Her 
watery  blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  drumhead  of  the 
banjo,  where  it  hung  suspended  above  the  melodeon. 

"I  did  so  paint  them  flowers.  And  well  you  know  it. 
"What's  the  good  of  bein'  so  mean?  If  you  wasn't  heeled 
you'd  let  me  have  it  my  way.  Didn't  I  bring  that  banjo 
with  me?" 

"Hungh!    Say  you  did.    What  does  that  prove?" 

"I  guess  it  proves  some  thin',  all  right." 

"Proves  you  swiped  it,  likely." 

' '  Me !    I  ain  't  that  kind,  thanks. ' ' 

"The  hell  you  ain't." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  15 

"If  you're  tryin'  to  get  gay,  cut  it  out!" 

"Not  me." 

"Well,  then— quit!" 

This  was  shortly  after  supper.  It  was  an  unusually 
hot,  humid  evening;  doors  and  windows  stood  open  to  no 
purpose;  and  Susan  was  sitting  out  on  the  monolithic 
door  slab,  fighting  off  mosquitoes.  She  found  that  this 
defensive  warfare  partly  distracted  her  from  the  witless, 
interminable  bickering  within.  Moreover,  the  striated 
effluvia  of  whisky,  talcum  powder,  and  perspiration  had 
made  her  head  feel  a  little  queer.  By  comparison,  the 
fetid  breath  from  the  exposed  mud  banks  of  the  salt  marsh 
was  almost  refreshing. 

Possibly  it  was  because  her  head  did  feel  a  little  queer 
that  Susan  began  presently  to  wonder  about  things.  Be- 
tween her  days  at  the  neighboring  public  school  and  her 
voluntary  rounds  of  housework,  Susan  had  not  of  late 
years  had  much  waking  time  to  herself.  In  younger  and 
less  crowded  hours,  before  her  father  had  been  informed 
by  the  authorities  that  he  must  either  send  his  child  to 
school  or  take  the  consequences,  Susan  had  put  in  all 
her  spare  moments  at  wondering.  She  would  see  a  toad 
in  the  back  yard,  for  example,  under  a  plantain  leaf,  and 
she  would  begin  to  wonder.  She  would  wonder  what  it  felt 
like  to  be  a  toad.  And  before  very  long  something  would 
happen  to  her,  inside,  and  she  would  be  a  toad.  She  would 
have  toad  thoughts  and  toad  feelings.  .  .  .  There  would 
stretch  above  her  a  dim,  green,  balancing  canopy — the 
plantain  leaf.  All  about  her  were  soaring,  translucent 
fronds — the  grass.  It  was  cool  there  under  the  plantain 
leaf;  but  she  was  enormously  fat  and  ugly,  her  brain 
felt  like  sooty  cobwebs,  and  nobody  loved  her. 

Still,  she  didn't  care  much.  She  could  feel  her  soft 
gray  throat,  like  a  blown-into  glove  finger,  pulsing  slowly 
— which  was  almost  as  soothing  a  sensation  as  letting  the 
swing  die  down.  It  made  her  feel  as  if  Someone — some 
great  unhappy  cloudlike  Being — were  making  up  a  song, 
a  song  about  most  everything;  chanting  it  sleepily  to  him- 


16  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

self — or  was  it  herself f — somewhere;  and  as  if  she  were 
part  of  this  beautiful,  unhappy  song.  But  all  the  time 
she  knew  that  if  that  white  fluffy  restlessness — that  moth 
miller — fluttered  only  a  little  nearer  among  those  golden- 
green  fronds,  she  knew  if  it  reached  the  cool  rim  of  her 
plantain  shade,  she  knew,  then,  that  something  terrible 
would  happen  to  her — knew  that  something  swift  and 
blind,  that  she  couldn't  help,  would  coil  deep  within  her 
like  a  spring  and  so  launch  her  forward,  open-jawed.  It 
was  awful — awful  for  the  moth  miller — but  she  couldn't 
not  do  it.  She  was  a  toad.  .  .  . 

And  it  was  the  same  with  her  father.  There  were 
things  he  couldn't  not  do.  She  could  be — sitting  very 
still  in  a  corner — ~be  her  father,  when  he  was  angry;  and 
she  knew  he  couldn't  help  it.  It  was  just  a  dark  slow 
whirling  inside,  with  red  sparks  flying  swiftly  out  from  it. 
And  it  hurt  while  it  lasted.  Being  her  father  like  that 
always  made  her  sorry  for  him.  But  she  wished,  and  she 
felt  he  must  often  wish,  that  he  couldn't  be  at  all.  There 
were  lots  of  live  things  that  would  be  happier  if  they 
weren't  live  things;  and  if  they  weren't,  Susan  felt,  the 
great  cloudlike  Being  would  be  less  unhappy  too. 

Naturally,  I  am  giving  you  Susan's  later  interpreta- 
tions of  her  pre-schoolday  wonderings;  and  a  number  of 
you  would  gasp  a  little,  knowing  what  firm,  delicate  im- 
aginings all  Susan  Blake's  later  interpretations  were,  if 
I  should  give  you  her  pen  name  as  well — which  I  have 
promised  myself  not  to  do.  This  is  not  an  official  study 
of  a  young  writer  of  peculiar  distinction;  it  is  merely 
an  unpretending  book  about  a  little  girl  I  knew  and  a 
young  married  woman  I  still  know — one  and  the  same 
person.  It  is  what  I  have  named  it — that  only:  The 
Book  of  Susan. 

Meanwhile,  this  humid  June  night — to  the  sordid  ac- 
companiment of  Bob  and  Pearl  snarling  at  each  other 
half-drunkenly  within — Susan  waits  for  us  on  the  mono- 
lithic door  slab;  and  there  is  a, new  wonder  in  her  dizzy 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  17 

little  head.  I  can't  do  better  than  let  her  tell  you  in  her 
own  words  what  this  new  wonder  was  like. 

"Ambo,  dear" — my  name,  by  the  way,  is  Ambrose 
Hunt;  Captain  Hunt,  of  the  American  Red  Cross,  at 
the  present  writing,  which  I  could  date  from  a  sleepy  little 
village  in  Southern  France — "Ambo,  dear,  it  was  the 
moon,  mostly.  There  was  a  pink  bud  of  light  in  the  heat 
mist,  way  off  beyond  East  Rock,  and  then  the  great  wild 
rose  of  the  moon  opened  slowly  through  it.  Papa,  inside, 
was  sounding  just  like  a  dog  when  he's  bullying  another 
dog,  walking  up  on  the  points  of  his  toes,  stiff  legged, 
round  him.  So  I  tried  to  escape,  tried  to  be  the  moon; 
tried  to  feel  floaty  and  shining  and  beautiful,  and — and 
remote.  But  I  couldn't  manage  it.  I  never  could  make 
myself  be  anything  not  alive.  I've  tried  to  be  stones,  but 
it's  no  good.  It  won't  work.  I  can  be  trees — a  little.  But 
usually  I  have  to  be  animals,  or  men  and  women — and  of 
course  they're  animals  too. 

"Sol  began  wondering  why  I  liked  the  moon,  why  just 
looking  at  it  made  me  feel  happy.  It  couldn't  talk  to 
me ;  or  love  me.  All  it  could  do  was  to  be  up  there,  some- 
times, and  shine.  Then  I  remembered  about  mythology. 
Miss  Chisholm,  in  school,  was  always  telling  us  about  gods 
and  goddesses.  She  said  we  were  children,  so  we  could 
recreate  the  gods  for  ourselves,  because  they  belonged  to 
the  child  age  of  the  world.  She  talked  like  that  a  lot,  in  a 
faded-leaf  voice,  and  none  of  us  ever  understood  her.  The 
truth  is,  Ambo,  we  never  paid  any  attention  to  her;  she 
smiled  too  much  and  too  sadly,  without  meaning  it;  and 
her  eyelashes  were  white.  All  the  same,  that  night  some- 
how I  remembered  Artemis,  the  virgin  moon  goddess,  who 
slipped  silently  through  dark  woods  at  dusk,  hunting  with 
a  silvery  bow.  Being  a  virgin  seemed  to  mean  that  you 
didn't  care  much  for  boys.  But  I  did  always  like  boys 
better  than  girls,  so  I  decided  I  could  never  be  a  virgin. 
And  yet  I  loved  the  thought  of  Artemis  from  that  mo- 
ment. I  began  to  think  about  her — oh,  intensely ! — always 
keeping  off  by  herself;  cool,  and  shining,  and — and  de- 


18  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

tached.  And  there  was  one  boy  she  had  cared  for;  1  re- 
membered that,  too,  though  I  couldn't  remember  his  name. 
A  naked,  brown  sort  of  boy,  who  kept  off  by  himself  on 
blue,  distant  hills.  So  Artemis  wasn't  really  a  virgin  at 
all.  She  was  just — awfully  particular.  She  liked  clean, 
open  places,  and  the  winds,  and  clear,  swift  water.  What 
she  hated  most  was  stuffiness!  That's  why  I  decided  then 
and  there,  Ambo,  that  Artemis  should  be  my  goddess,  my 
own  pet  goddess;  and  I  made  up  a  prayer  to  her.  I've 
never  forgotten  it.  I  often  say  it  still.  .  .  . 

Dearest,  dearest  Far-Away, 
Can  you  hear  me  when  I  pray? 
Can  you  hear  me  when  I  cry? 
Would  you  care  if  I  should  die? 
No,  you  wouldn't  care  at  all; 
But  1  love  you  most  of  all. 

"It  isn't  very  good,  Ambo,  but  it's  the  first  rhyme  I 
ever  made  up  out  of  my  own  head.  And  I  just  talked 
it  right  off  to  Artemis  without  any  trouble.  But  I  had 
hardly  finished  it,  when " 

What  had  happened  next  was  the  crash  of  glassware, 
followed  by  Bob's  thick  voice,  bellowing:  "C'm  ba'  here! 
Damned  slut!  Tell  yeh  t*  c'm  ba'  an' — an'  'pol'gize!" 

Susan  heard  a  strangling  screech  from  Pearl,  the  jar 
of  a  heavy  piece  of  furniture  overturned.  The  child's 
first  impulse  was  to  run  out  into  Birch  Street  and  scream 
for  help.  She  tells  me  her  spine  knew  all  at  once  that 
something  terrible  had  happened — or  was  going  to  hap- 
pen. Then,  in  an  odd  flash  of  hallucination,  she  saw 
Artemis  poised  the  fleetingest  second  before  her — beauti- 
ful, a  little  disdainful,  divinely  unafraid.  So  Susan 
gulped,  dug  her  nails  fiercely  into  her  palms,  and  hurried 
back  through  the  parlor  into  the  kitchen,  where  she  stum- 
bled across  the  overturned  table  and  fell,  badly  bruising 
her  cheek. 

As  she  scrambled  to  her  feet  a  door  slammed  to,  above. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  19 

Her  father,  in  a  grotesque  crouching  posture,  was  mount- 
ing the  ladderlike  stair.  On  the  floor  at  the  stair's  foot 
lay  the  parchment  head  of  Pearl's  banjo,  which  he  had  cut 
from  its  frame.  Susan  distinctly  caught  the  smudged 
pinks  and  blues  of  the  nondescript  flowers.  She  realized 
at  once  that  her  father  was  bound  on  no  good  errand. 
And  Pearl  was  trapped.  Susan  called  to  her  father, 
daringly,  a  little  wildly.  He  slued  round  to  her,  leaning 
heavily  on  the  stair  rail,  his  face  green-white,  his  lips  held 
back  by  some  evil  reflex  in  a  fixed,  appalling  grin. 

It  was  the  face  of  a  madman.  .  .  .  He  raised  his  right 
hand,  slowly,  and  a  tiny  prismatic  gleam  darted  from  the 
blade  of  an  opened  razor — one  of  his  precious  set  of  six. 
He  had  evidently  used  it  to  destroy  the  banjo  head,  which 
he  would  never  have  done  in  his  right  mind.  But  now 
he  made  a  shocking  gesture  with  the  blade,  significant 
of  other  uses;  then  turned,  crouching  once  more,  to  con- 
tinue upward.  Susan  tried  to  cry  out,  tried  to  follow  him, 
until  the  room  slid  from  its  moorings  into  a  whirlpool  of 
humming  blackness.  .  .  . 

That  is  all  Susan  remembers  for  some  time.  It  is  just 
as  well. 

VI 

"What  Susan  next  recalls  is  an  intense  blare  of  light, 
rousing  her  from  her  nothingness,  like  trumpets.  Her 
immediate  confused  notion  was  that  the  gates  of  hell  had 
been  flung  wide  for  her ;  and  when  a  tall  black  figure  pres. 
ently  cut  across  the  merciless  rays  and  towered  before 
her,  she  thought  it  must  be  the  devil.  But  the  intense 
blare  came  from  the  head  lights  of  my  touring  car,  and 
the  tall  black  devil  was  I.  A  greatly  puzzled  and  com- 
passionate devil  I  was  too!  Maltby  Phar — that  exquisite 
anarchist — was  staying  with  me,  and  we  had  run  down 
to  the  shore  for  dinner,  hoping  to  mitigate  the  heat  by  the 
ride,  and  my  new  sensation  of  frustrate  middle-age  by 
broiled  live  lobsters.  It  was  past  eleven.  I  had  just 


20  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

dropped  Maltby  at  the  house  and  had  run  my  car  round 
to  the  garage  where  Bob  worked,  meaning  to  leave  it 
there  overnight  so  Bob  could  begin  patching  at  it  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning.  It  had  been  bucking  its  way 
along  on  three  cylinders  or  less  all  day. 

Bob's  garage  lay  back  from  the  street  down  a  narrow 
alley.  Judge,  then,  of  my  astonishment  as  I  nosed  my  car 
up  to  its  shut  double  doors !  There,  on  the  concrete  incline 
before  the  doors,  lay  a  small  crumpled  figure,  half-curled, 
like  an  unearthed  cut-worm,  about  a  shining  dinner  pail. 
I  brought  the  car  to  a  sudden  dead  stop.  The  small  figure 
partly  uncrumpled,  and  a  white,  blinded  little  face  lifted 
toward  me.  It  was  Bob's  youngster!  What  was  she  up 
to,  lying  there  on  the  ribbed  concrete  at  this  time  of  night  ? 
And  in  heaven's  name — why  the  dinner  pail?  I  jumped 
down  to  investigate. 

"You're  Susan  Blake,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes" — with  a  whispered  gasp — "your  Royal  High- 
ness." 

Susan  says  she  doesn't  know  just  why  she  addressed  the 
devil  in  that  way,  unless  she  was  trying  to  flatter  him 
and  so  get  round  him. 

"I'm  not  so  awfully  bad,"  she  went  on,  "if  you  don't 
count  thinking  things  too  much ! ' ' 

The  right  cheek  of  her  otherwise  delicately  modeled 
child's  face  was  a  swollen  lump  of  purple  and  green.  I 
dropped  down  on  one  knee  beside  her. 

"Why,  you  poor  little  lady!     You're  hurt!" 

Instantly  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  wild-eyed. 

"No,  no!  It's  not  me — it's  Pearl!  Oh,  quick — please! 
He  had  a  razor!" 

"Razor?  Who  did?"  I  seized  her  hands.  "I'm  Mr. 
Hunt,  dear.  Your  father  often  works  on  my  car.  Tell 
me  what's  wrong!" 

She  was  still  half  dazed.  ' '  I — I  can 't  see  why  I  'm  down 
here — with  papa's  dinner  pail.  Pearl  was  upstairs,  and 
I  tried  to  stop  him  from  going."  Then  she  began  to 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  21 

whimper  like  a  whipped  puppy.  "It's  all  mixed.  I'm 
scared." 

"Of  course — of  course  you  are;  but  it's  going  to  be  all 
right."  I  led  her  to  the  car  and  lifted  her  to  the  front 
seat.  "Hold  on  a  minute,  Susan.  I'll  be  back  with  you 
in  less  than  no  time!" 

I  sounded  my  horn  impatiently.  After  an  interval,  a 
slow-footed  car  washer  inside  the  garage  began  trundling 
the  doors  back  to  admit  me.  I  ran  to  him. 

No.  Bob,  he  left  at  six^  same  as  usual.  He  hadn't 
been  round  since.  .  .  .  His  kid,  eh?  Mebbe  the  heat  had 
turned  her  queer.  Nuff  to  addle  most  folks,  the  heat 
was.  .  .  . 

I  saw  that  he  knew  nothing,  and  snapped  him  off  with 
a  sharp  request  to  crank  the  car  for  me.  As  he  did  so, 
I  jumped  in  beside  Susan. 

"Where  do  you  live,  Susan?  Oh,  yes,  of  course — Birch 
Street.  Bob  told  me  that.  ...  Eh?  You  don't  want  to 
go  home?" 

"Never,  please.  Never,  never!  I  won't!"  Proclaim- 
ing this,  she  flung  Bob's  dinner  pail  from  her  and  it 
bounced  and  clattered  down  the  asphalt.  "It's  too 
late,"  she  added,  in  a  frightened  whisper:  "I  know  it  is!" 

Then  she  seized  my  arm — thereby  almost  wrecking  us 
against  a  fire  hydrant — and  clung  to  me,  sobbing.  I 
was  puzzled  and — yes — alarmed.  Bob  was  a  bad  cus- 
tomer. The  child's  bruised  face  .  .  .  something  she  had 

said  about  a  razor ?  And  instantly  I  made  up  my 

mind. 

"I'll  take  you  to  my  house,  Susan.  Mrs.  Parrot" — 
Mrs.  Parrot  was  my  housekeeper — "will  fix  you  up  for 
to-night.  Then  I'll  go  round  and  see  Bob;  see  what's 
wrong."  I  felt  her  thin  fingers  dig  into  my  arm  con- 
vulsively. "Yes,"  I  reassured  her,  taking  a  corner  peril- 
ously at  full  speed,  "that  will  be  much  better.  You'll 
like  Mrs.  Parrot." 

Rather  recklessly,  I  hoped  this  might  prove  to  be  true; 
for  Mrs.  Parrot  was  a  little  difficult  at  times.  .  .  . 


22  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

It  was  Maltby  Phar  who  saw  me  coming  up  the  steps 
with  a  limp  child  in  my  arms,  and  who  opened  the  screen 
door  for  me.  "Aha!"  he  exclaimed.  "Done  it  this  time, 
eh!  Always  knew  you  would,  sooner  or  later.  You're 
too  damned  absent-minded  to  drive  a  car.  You " 

"Nonsense!"  I  struck  in.  "Tell  Mrs.  Parrot  to  ring  up 
Doctor  Stevens.  Then  send  her  to  me. ' '  And  I  continued 
on  upstairs  with  Susan. 

When  Mrs.  Parrot  came,  Susan  was  lying  with  closed 
eyes  in  the  middle  of  a  great  white  embroidered  coverlet, 
upon  which  her  shoes  had  smeared  greasy,  permanent- 
looking  stains. 

"Mercy,"  sighed  Mrs.  Parrot,  "if  you've  killed  the 
poor  creature,  nobody's  sorrier  than  I  am!  But  why 
couldn't  you  have  laid  her  down  on  the  floor?  She 
wouldn't  have  known." 

In  certain  respects  Mrs.  Parrot  was  invaluable  to  me; 
but  then  and  there  I  suspected  that  Mrs.  Parrot  would, 
in  the  not-too-distant  future,  have  to  go. 

"Within  five  minutes  Doctor  Stevens  arrived,  and,  after 
hurried  explanations,  Maltby  and  I  left  him  in  charge — 
and  then  made  twenty-five  an  hour  to  Birch  Street. 

However,  Susan's  intuitions  had  been  correct.  We 
found  Bob's  four-room  house  quite  easily.  It  was  the 
house  with  the  crowd  in  front  of  it.  ...  We  were  an  hour 
too  late. 

' '  Cut  her  throat  clean  •  acrost ;  and  his  own  after, ' ' 
shrilled  Mrs.  Perkins  to  us — Mrs.  Perkins,  who  lived  three 
doors  nearer  the  right  end  of  Birch  Street.  "But  it's  only 
what  was  to  be  looked  for,  and  I  guess  it'll  be  a  lesson 
to  some.  You  can't  expect  no  better  end  than  that," 
perorated  Mrs.  Perkins  to  us  and  her  excited  neighbors, 
while  her  small  gray-green  eyes  snapped  with  electric 
malice,  "you  can't  expect  no  better  end  than  that  to  sech 
brazen  immorality!" 

"My  God,"  groaned  Maltby,  as  we  sped  away,  "How 
they  have  enjoyed  it  all!  Why,  you  almost  ruined  the 
evening  for  them  when  you  told  them  you'd  found  the 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  23 

child!  They  were  hoping  to  discover  her  body  in  the 
cellar  or  down  the  well.  Ugh !  What  a  world ! 

"By  the  way,"  he  added,  as  we  turned  once  more 
into  the  dignified  breadth  of  Hillhouse  Avenue,  "what '11 
you  do  with  the  homely  little  brat?  Put  her  in  some  kind 
of  awful  institution?" 

The  bland  tone  of  his  assumption  irritated  me.  I 
ground  on  the  brakes. 

' '  Certainly  not !  I  like  her.  If  she  returns  the  compli- 
ment, and  her  relatives  don't  claim  her,  she'll  stay  on 
here  with  me." 

"Hum.  Bravo.  .  .  .  About  two  weeks,"  said  Maltby 
Phar. 


THE  SECOND  CHAPTER 


IT  was  not  Susan  who  left  me  at  the  end  of  two  weeks; 
it  was  Mrs.  Parrot.  Maltby  had  departed  within  three 
days,  hastening  perforce  to  editorial  duties  in  New  York. 
He  then  edited,  with  much  furtive  groaning  to  sympa- 
thetic friends,  the  Garden  Exquisite,  a  monthly  maga- 
zine de  luxe,  devoted  chiefly  to  advertising  matter,  and 
to  photographs  taken — by  request  of  far-seeing  wives  and 
daughters — at  the  country  clubs  and  on  the  country  es- 
tates of  our  minor  millionaires.  For  a  philosophical  an- 
arch, rather  a  quaint  occupation !  Yet  one  must  live.  .  .  . 
Maltby,  however,  had  threatened  a  return  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, "to  look  over  the  piteous  debacle."  There  was  no 
probability  that  Mrs.  Parrot  would  ever  return. 

"You  cannot  expect  me,"  maintained  Mrs.  Parrot,  "to 
wait  on  the  child  of  a  murdering  suicide.  Especially, ' '  she 
added,  "when  he  was  nothing  but  a  common  sort  of  man 
to  begin  with.  I'm  as  sorry  for  that  poor  little  creature 
as  anybody  in  New  Haven ;  but  there  are  places  for  such. ' ' 

That  was  her  ultimatum.  My  reply  was  two  weeks' 
notice,  and  a  considerable  monetary  gift  to  soften  the 
blow. 

Hillhouse  Avenue,  in  general,  so  far  as  I  could  dis- 
cover, rather  sympathized  with  Mrs.  Parrot.  She  at  once 
obtained  an  excellent  post,  becoming  housekeeper  for  the 
Misses  Carstairs,  spinster  sisters  of  incredible  age,  who 
lived  only  two  doors  from  me  in  a  respectable  mansion 
whose  portico  resembled  an  Egyptian  tomb.  Wandering 
freshmen  from  the  Yale  campus  frequently  mistook  it  for 
the  home  office  of  one  of  the  stealthier  secret  societies. 

24 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  25 

There,  silently  ensconced,  Mrs.  Parrot  burned  with  a 
hard,  gemlike  flame,  and  awaited  my  final  downfall.  So 
did  the  Misses  Carstairs,  who,  being  cousins  of  my  wife, 
had  remained  firmly  in  opposition.  And  rumor  had  it 
that  other  members  of  neighboring  families  were  suffering 
discomfort  from  the  proximity  of  Susan.  It  was  as  if 
a  tiny,  almost  negligible  speck  of  coal  dust  had  blown 
into  the  calm,  watchful  eye  of  the  genius  loci,  and  was 
gradually  inflaming  it — with  resultant  nervous  irritation 
to  all  its  members. 

Susan  was  happily  unconscious  of  these  things.  Her 
gift  of  intuition  had  not  yet  projected  itself  into  that 
ethereal  region  which  conserves  the  more  tenuous  tone  and 
the  subtler  distinction — denominate  "society."  For  the 
immediate  moment  she  was  bounded  in  a  nutshell,  yet 
seemed  to  count  herself  a  princess  of  infinite  space — yes, 
in  spite  of  bad  dreams.  We — Doctor  Stevens  and  I — had 
put  her  to  bed  in  the  large,  coolly  distinguished  corner 
room  formerly  occupied  by  Gertrude.  This  room  opened 
directly  into  my  own.  Doctor  Stevens  counselled  bed  for 
a  few  days,  and  Susan  seemed  well  content  to  obey  his 
mandate.  Meanwhile,  I  had  requested  Mrs.  Parrot  to  buy 
various  necessities  for  her — toothbrushes,  nightdresses,  day 
dresses,  petticoats,  and  so  on.  Mrs.  Parrot  had  supposed  I 
should  want  the  toilet  articles  inexpensive,  and  the  cloth- 
ing plain  but  good. 

"Good,  by  all  means,  Mrs.  Parrot,"  I  had  corrected, 
"but  not  plain.  As  pretty  and  frilly  as  possible!" 

Mrs.  Parrot  had  been  inclined  to  argue  the  matter. 

"When  that  poor  little  creature  goes  from  here,"  she 
had  maintained,  "flimsy,  fussy  things  will  be  of  no  ser- 
vice to  her.  None.  She'll  need  coarse,  substantial  articles 
that  will  bear  usage." 

"Do  you  like  to  wear  coarse,  substantial  articles,  Mrs. 
Parrot?"  I  had  mildly  asked.  "So  far  as  I  am  permit- 
ted to  observe " 

Mrs.  Parrot  had  resented  the  implication.  "I  hope  in 
my  outer  person,  Mr.  Hunt,  that  I  show  a  decent  respect 


26  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

for  ray  employers,  but  I've  never  been  one  to  pamper 
myself  on  linjery,  if  I  may  use  the  word — not  believing 
it  wholesome.  Nor  to  discuss  it  with  gentlemen.  But 
if  I  don't  know  what  it's  wisest  and  best  to  buy  in  this 
case,  who,"  she  had  demanded  of  heaven,  "does?" 

' '  Possibly, ' '  heaven  not  replying,  had  been  my  response, 
"I  do.  At  any  rate,  I  can  try." 

It  was  fun  trying.  I  ran  down  on  the  eight  o'clock 
to  New  York  and  strolled  up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue, 
shopping  here  and  there  as  the  fancy  moved  me.  Shop- 
ping— with  a  well-filled  pocketbook — is  not  a  difficult  art. 
Women  exaggerate  its  difficulties  for  their  own  malign 
purposes.  In  two  hours  of  the  most  casual  activity  I  had 
bought  a  great  number  of  delightful  things — for  my  little 
daughter,  you  know.  Her  age?  .  .  .  Oh,  well — I  should 
think  about  fourteen.  Let's  call  it  'going  on  fourteen.' 
Then  it's  sure  to  be  all  right." 

It  was  all  right — essentially.  By  which  I  mean  that  the 
parties  of  the  first  and  second  parts — to  wit,  Susan  and 
I — were  entirely  and  blissfully  satisfied. 

Susan  liked  particularly  a  lacy  sort  of  nightgown  all 
knotted  over  with  little  pink  ribbony  rosebuds;  there  was 
a  coquettish  boudoir  cap  to  match  it — suggestive  some- 
how of  the  caps  village  maidens  used  to  wear  in  old-fash- 
ioned comic  operas;  and  a  pink  silk  kimono  embroidered 
with  white  chrysanthemums,  to  top  off  the  general  effect. 
Needless  to  say,  Mrs.  Parrot  disapproved  of  the  general 
effect,  deeming  it,  no  doubt  with  some  reason,  a  thought 
flamboyant  for  Gertrude's  coolly  distinguished  corner 
room. 

But  Susan,  propped  straight  up  by  now  against  pillows, 
wantoned  in  this  finery.  She  would  stroke  the  pink  silk 
of  the  kimono  with  her  thin,  sensitive  fingers,  sigh  deeply, 
happily,  then  close  her  eyes. 

There  was  nothing  much  wrong  with  her.  The  green- 
and-purple  bruise  on  her  cheek — a  somber  note  which 
would  not  harmonize  with  the  frivolity  of  the  boudoir 
cap — was  no  longer  painful.  But,  as  Doctor  Stevens  put 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  27 

it,  "The  little  monkey's  all  in."  She  was  tired,  tired  out 
to  the  last  tiny  filament  of  her  tiniest  nerve.  .  .  . 

During  those  first  days  with  me  she  asked  no  awkward 
questions ;  and  few  of  any  kind.  Indeed,  she  rarely  spoke 
at  all,  except  with  her  always-speaking  black  eyes.  For 
the  time  being  the  restless-terrier-look  had  gone  from 
them;  they  were  quiet  and  deep,  and  said  "Thank  you," 
to  Doctor  Stevens,  to  Mrs.  Parrot,  to  me,  with  a  hundred 
modulating  shades  of  expression.  In  spite  of  a  clear- 
white,  finely  drawn  face,  against  which  the  purple  bruise 
stood  out  in  shocking  relief;  in  spite  of  entirely  straight 
but  gossamery  black  hair;  in  spite  of  a  rather  short  nose 
and  a  rather  wide  mouth — there  was  a  fascination  about 
the  child  which  no  one,  not  even  the  hostile  Mrs.  Parrot, 
wholly  escaped. 

"That  poor,  peeny  little  creature,"  admitted  Mrs.  Par- 
rot, on  the  very  morning  she  left  me,  "has  a  way  of  look- 
ing at  you — so  you  can't  talk  to  her  like  you'd  ought  to. 
It's  somebody's  duty  to  speak  to  her  in  a  Christian  spirit. 
She  never  says  her  prayers.  Nor  mentions  her  father. 
And  don't  seem  to  care  what's  happened  to  him,  or  why 
she's  here,  or  what's  to  come  to  her.  And  what  is  to 
come  to  her,"  demanded  Mrs.  Parrot,  "if  she  stays  on  in 
this  house,  without  a  God-fearing  woman,  and  one  you 
can't  fool  most  days?  Not  that  I  could  be  persuaded, 
having  made  other  arrangements.  And  if  I  may  say  a 
last  word,  the  wild  talk  I've  heard  here  isn't  what  I've 
been  used  to.  Nor  to  be  approved  of.  No  vulgarity. 
None.  I  don't  accuse.  But  free  with  matters  better  left 
to  the  church ;  or  in  the  dark — where  they  belong.  All 
I  hold  is,  that  some  things  are  sacred,  and  some  unmen- 
tionable; and  conversation  should  take  cognizance  of 
such!" 

I  had  never  known  her  so  moved  or  so  eloquent.  I 
strove  to  reassure  her. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Mrs.  Parrot.  I  apologize  for  any 
painful  moments  my  friends  and  I  have  given  you.  But 
don't  worry  too  much  about  Susan.  So  far  as  Susan's 


28  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

concerned,  I  promise  to  'take  cognizance'  in  every  possi- 
ble direction." 

It  was  clear  to  me  that  I  should  have  to  expend  a  good 
deal  of  care  upon  engaging  another  housekeeper  at  once. 
And,  of  course,  a  governess — for  lessons  and  things.  And 
a  maid  ?  Yes ;  Susan  would  need  a  maid,  if  only  to  do  her 
mending.  Obviously,  neither  the  housekeeper,  the  gover- 
ness, nor  I  could  be  expected  to  take  cognizance  of  that. 

n 

But  I  anticipate.  Two  weeks  before  Mrs.  Parrot's 
peroration,  on  the  very  evening  of  the  day  Maltby  Phar 
had  left  me,  Susan  and  I  had  had  our  first  good  talk  to- 
gether. My  memorable  shopping  tour  had  not  yet  come 
off,  and  Susan,  having  pecked  birdlike  at  a  very  light 
supper,  was  resting — semi-recumbent — in  bed,  clothed  in  a 
suit  of  canary-yellow  pajamas,  two  sizes  too  big  for  her, 
which  I  was  rather  shaken  to  discover  belonged  to  Nora, 
my  quiet  little  Irish  parlor  maid.  I  had  not  supposed  that 
Nora  indulged  in  night  gear  filched  from  musical  comedy. 
However,  Nora  had  meant  to  be  kind  in  a  good  cause; 
though  canary  yellow  is  emphatically  a  color  for  the 
flushed  and  buxom  and  should  never  be  selected  for  peeny, 
anemic  little  girls.  It  did  make  Susan  look  middling 
ghastly,  as  if  quarantined  from  all  access  to  Hygeia,  the 
goddess!  Perhaps  that  is  why,  when  I  perched  beside 
her  on  the  edge  of  Gertrude's  colonial  four-poster,  I  felt 
an  unaccustomed  prickling  sensation  back  of  my  eyes. 

"How  goes  it,  canary  bird?"  I  asked,  taking  the  thin, 
blue-threaded  hand  that  lay  nearest  to  me. 

Susan's  fingers  at  once  curled  trustfully  to  mine,  and 
there  came  something  very  like  a  momentary  glimmer  of 
mischief  into  her  dark  eyes. 

"If  I  was  an  honest-to-God  canary,  I  could  sing  to 
you,"  said  Susan.  "I'd  like  to  do  something  for  you, 
Mr.  Hunt.  Something  you'd  like,  I  mean." 

"Well,  you  can,  dear.     You  can  stop  calling  me  'Mr. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  29 

Hunt'!  My  first  name's  pretty  awkward,  though.  It's 
Ambrose." 

For  an  instant  Susan  considered  my  first  name,  criti- 
cally, then  very  slowly  shook  her  head.  "It's  a  nice  name. 
It's  too  nice,  isn't  it — for  every  day?" 

I  laughed.  "But  it's  all  I  have,  Susan.  What  shall 
•we  do  about  it?" 

Then  Susan  laughed,  too;  it  was  the  first  time  I  had 
heard  her  laugh.  "I  guess  your  mother  was  feeling 
kind  of  stuck  up  when  she  called  you  that!" 

"Most  mothers  do  feel  kind  of  stuck  up  over  their  first 
babies,  Susan." 

She  considered  this,  and  nodded  assent.  "But  it's  silly 
of  them,  anyway,"  she  announced.  "There  are  so  many 
babies  all  the  time,  everywhere.  There's  nothing  new 
about  babies,  Ambo." 

"Aha!"  I  exclaimed.  "You  knew  from  the  first  how 
to  chasten  my  stuck-up  name,  didn't  you?  'Ambo'  is  a 
delightful  improvement. ' ' 

"It's  more  like  you,"  said  Susan,  tightening  her  fingers 
briefly  on  mine. 

And  presently  she  closed  her  eyes.  When,  after  a  long 
still  interval,  she  opened  them,  they  were  cypress-shaded 
pools. 

"Tell  me  what  happened,  Ambo." 

"He's  dead,  Susan.    Pearl's  dead,  too." 

She  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  two  big  tears  slipped  out 
from  between  her  lids,  wetting  her  thick  eyelashes  and 
staining  her  bruised  and  her  pallid  cheek. 

"He  couldn't  help  it.  He  was  made  like  that,  inside. 
He  was  no  damn  good,  Ambo.  That's  what  he  was  always 
saying  to  Pearl — 'You're  no  damn  good.'  She  wasn't, 
either.  And  he  wasn't,  much.  I  guess  it's  better  for  him 
and  Pearl  to  be  dead." 

This — and  the  two  big  tears — was  her  good-by  to  Bob, 
to  Pearl,  to  the  four-room  house;  her  good-by  to  Birch 
Street.  It  shocked  me  at  the  time.  I  released  her  hand 
and  stood  up  to  light  a  cigarette — staring  the  while  at 


30  THE  BOOK  OP  SUSAN 

Susan.  "Where  had  she  found  her  precocious  brains? 
And  had  she  no  heart?  Had  something  of  Bob's  granitic 
harshness  entered  into  this  uncanny,  this  unnatural  child? 
Should  I  live  to  regret  my  decision  to  care  for  her,  to  edu- 
cate her?  When  I  died,  would  she  say — to  whom? — "I 
guess  it's  better  for  him  to  be  dead.  Poor  Ambo!  He 
was  no  damn  good." 

But  even  as  I  shuddered,  I  smiled.  For,  after  all,  she 
was  right;  the  child  was  right.  She  had  merely  uttered, 
truthfully,  thoughts  which  a  more  conventional  mind, 
more  conventionally  disciplined,  would  have  known  how  to 
conceal — yes,  to  conceal  even  from  itself.  Genius  was 
very  like  that. 

"Susan!"  I  suddenly  demanded.  "Have  you  any  rela- 
tives who  will  try  to  claim  you?" 

"Claim  me?" 

"Yes.    Want  to  take  care  of  you?" 

"Mamma's  sister-in-law  lives  in  Hoboken,"  said  Susan. 
"But  she's  a  widow;  and  she's  got  seven  already." 

"Would  you  like  to  stay  here  with  me?" 

For  all  answer  she  flopped  sidelong  down  from  the  pil- 
lows and  hid  her  bruised  face  in  the  counterpane.  Her 
slight,  canary-clad  shoulders  were  shaken  with  stifled 
weeping. 

"That  settles  it!"  I  affirmed.  "I'll  see  my  lawyer  in 
the  morning,  and  he'll  get  the  court  to  appoint  me  your 
guardian.  Come  now !  If  you  cry  about  it,  I  '11  think  you 
don 't  want  me  for  guardian.  Do  you  ? ' ' 

She  turned  a  blubbered,  wistful  face  toward  me  from 
the  counterpane.  Her  eyes  answered  me.  I  leaned  over, 
smoothed  a  pillow  and  slipped  it  beneath  her  tired  head, 
then  kissed  her  unbruised  cheek  and  walked  quietly  back 
into  my  own  room — where  I  rang  for  Mrs.  Parrot. 

When  she  arrived,  "Mrs.  Parrot,"  I  suggested,  "please 
make  Susan  comfortable  for  the  night,  will  you  ?  And  I  '11 
appreciate  it  if  you  treat  her  exactly  as  you  would  my  own 
child." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  31 

It  took  Mrs.  Parrot  at  least  a  minute  to  hit  upon  some- 
thing she  quite  dared  to  leave  with  me. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Hunt.  Not  having  an  own  child,  and 
not  knowing — you  can  say  that.  Not  that  it's  the  same 
thing,  though  you  do  say  it!  But  I'll  make  her  com- 
fortable— and  time  tells.  In  darker  days,  I  hope  you'll  be 
able  to  say  that  poor,  peeny  little  creature  has  done  the 
same  by  you." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.   Parrot.     Good-night." 

"A  good  night  to  you,  Mr.  Hunt,"  elaborated  Mrs.  Par- 
rot, not  without  malice;  "many  of  them,  Mr.  Hunt;  many 
of  them,  I'm  sure." 

m 

By  the  time  Mrs.  Parrot  left  us,  housekeeper,  governess, 
and  maid  had  been  obtained  in  New  York  through  agencies 
of  the  highest  respectability. 

Miss  Goucher,  the  housekeeper,  proved  to  be  a  tall, 
big-framed  spinster,  rising  fifty;  a  capable,  taciturn 
woman  with  a  positive  talent  for  minding  her  own  affairs. 
She  had  bleak,  light-gray  eyes,  a  rudderlike  nose,  and  a 
harsh,  positive  way  of  speech  that  was  less  disagreeable 
than  it  might  have  been,  because  she  so  seldom  spoke  at 
all.  Having  hoped  for  a  more  amiable  presence,  I  was 
of  two  minds  over  keeping  her ;  but  she  took  charge  of  my 
house  so  promptly  and  efficiently,  and  effaced  herself  so 
thoroughly — a  difficult  feat  for  so  definite  a  figure — that 
in  the  end  there  was  nothing  I  conld  complain  of;  and  so 
she  stayed. 

Miss  Disbrow  on  the  other  hand,  who  came  as  gover- 
ness, was  all  that  I  had  dared  to  wish  for;  a  graceful, 
light-footed,  soft-voiced  girl — she  was  not  yet  thirty — 
with  charming  manners,  a  fluent  command  of  the  purest 
convent-taught  French,  a  nice  touch  on  the  piano,  and  ap- 
parently some  slight  acquaintance  with  the  solider 
branches.  Merely  to  associate  with  Miss  Disbrow  would, 
I  felt,  do  much  for  Susan. 

I  was  less  certain  about  Sonia,  the  maid.     I  had  asked 


32  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

for  a  middle-aged  English  maid.  Sonia  was  Russian,  and 
she  was  only  twenty-three.  But  she  was  sent  directly  to 
me  from  service  with  Countess  Dimbrovitski — formerly,  as 
you  know,  Maud  Hochstetter,  of  Omaha — and  brought 
with  her  a  most  glowing  reference  for  skill,  honesty,  and 
unfailing  tact.  Countess  Dimbrovitski  did  not  explain  in 
the  reference,  dated  from  Newport,  why  she  had  permitted 
this  paragon  to  slip  from  her;  nor  did  it  occur  to  me  to 
investigate  the  point.  But  Sonia  later  explained  it  all,  in 
intimate  detail,  to  Susan — as  we  shall  see. 

I  had  feared  that  Susan  might  be  at  first  a  little  be- 
wildered by  the  attentions  of  Sonia  and  of  Miss  Disbrow; 
so  I  explained  the  unusual  situation  to  Miss  Goucher  and 
Miss  Disbrow — with  certain  reservations — and  asked  them 
to  make  it  clear  to  Sonia.  Miss  Goucher  merely  nodded, 
curtly  enough,  and  said  she  understood.  Miss  Disbrow 
proved  more  curious  and  more  voluble. 

"How  wonderful  of  you,  Mr.  Hunt!"  she  exclaimed. 
"To  take  in  a  poor  little  waif  and  do  all  this  for  her! 
Personally,  I  count  it  a  privilege  to  be  allowed  some  share, 
in  so  generous  an  action.  Oh,  but  I  do — I  do.  One  likes 
to  feel,  even  when  forced  to  work  for  one's  living,  that 
one  has  some  little  opportunity  to  do  good  in  the  world. 
Life  isn  't, ' '  asked  Miss  Disbrow,  ' '  all  money-grubbing  and 
selfishness,  is  it?"  'And  as  I  found  no  ready  answer,  she 
concluded:  "But  I  need  hardly  ask  that  of  you!" 

For  the  fleetingest  second  I  found  myself  wondering 
whether  Miss  Disbrow,  deep  down  in  her  hidden  heart, 
might  not  be  a  minx.  Yet  her  glance,  the  happiest  mix- 
ture of  frankness,  timidity,  and  respectful  admiration,  dis- 
armed me.  I  dismissed  the  unworthy  suspicion  as  absurd. 

I  was  a  little  troubled,  though,  when  Susan  that  same 
evening  after  dinner  came  to  me  in  the  library  and  seated 
herself  on  a  low  stool  facing  my  easy-chair. 

"Ambo,"  she  said,  "I've  been  blind  as  blind, 
haven't  I?" 

"Have  you?"  I  responded.  "For  a  blind  girl,  it's  won- 
derful how  you  find  your  way  about ! ' ' 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  33 

"But  I'm  not  joking — and  that's  just  it,"  said  Susan. 

"What's  wrong,  dear?"  I  asked.    "I  see  something  is." 

"Yes.  I  am.  The  wrongest  possible.  I've  just  dumped 
myself  on  you,  and  stayed  here;  and — and  I've  no  damn 
business  here  at  all!" 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  forget  the  damns  and 
hells,  Susan?" 

"We  are,"  said  Susan,  coloring  sharply  and  looking 
as  if  she  wanted  to  cry.  "But  when  you've  heard  them, 
and  worse,  every  minute  all  your  life — it's  pretty  hard  to 
forget.  You  must  scold  me  more!"  Then  with  a  swift 
movement  she  leaned  forward  and  laid  her  cheek  on  my 
knee.  "You're  too  good  to  me,  Ambo.  I  oughtn't  to  be 
here — wearing  wonderful  dresses,  having  a  maid  to  do  my 
hair  and — and  polish  me  and  button  me  and  mend  me. 
I  wasn't  meant  to  have  an  easy  time;  I  wasn't  born  for 
it.  First  thing  you  know,  Ambo,  I  '11  get  to  thinking  I  was 
— and  be  mean  to  you  somehow ! ' ' 

"I'll  risk  that,  Susan." 

"Yes,  but  I  oughtn't  to  let  you.  I  could  learn  to  be 
somebody 's  maid  like  Sonia ;  and  if  I  study  hard — and  I  'm 
going  to !— some  day  I  could  be  a  governess  like  Miss  Dis- 
brow ;  only  really  know  things,  not  just  pretend.  Or  when 
I'm  old  enough,  a  housekeeper  like  Miss  Goucher!  That's 
what  you  should  make  me  do — work  for  you !  I  can  clean 
things  better  than  Nora  now;  I  never  skip  underneaths. 
Truly,  Ambo,  it's  all  wrong,  my  having  people  work  for 
me — at  your  expense.  I  know  it  is!  Miss  Disbrow  made 
it  all  clear  as  clear,  right  away." 

"What!  Has  Miss  Disbrow  been  stuffing  this  nonsense 
into  your  head ! "  I  was  furious. 

"Oh,  not  in  words!"  cried  Susan.  "She  talks  just  the 
other  way.  She  keeps  telling  me  how  fortunate  I  am  to 
have  a  guardian  like  you,  and  how  I  must  be  so  careful 
never  to  annoy  you  or  make  you  regret  what  you've  done 
for  me.  Then  she  sighs  and  says  life  is  very  hard  and 
unjust  to  many  girls  born  with  more  advantages.  Of 
course  she  means  herself,  Ambo.  You  see,  she  hates  having 


34  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

to  work  at  all.  She's  much  nicer  to  look  at  and  talk  to, 
but  she  reminds  me  of  Pearl.  She's  no  damn — she's  no 
good,  Ambo  dear.  She's  hard  where  she  ought  to  be  soft, 
and  soft  where  she  ought  to  be  hard.  She  tries  to  get 
round  people,  so  she  can  coax  things  out  of  them.  But 
she'll  never  get  round  Miss  Goucher,  Ambo — or  me." 
And  Susan  hesitated,  lifting  her  head  from  my  knee  and 
looking  up  at  me  doubtfully,  only  to  add,  "I — I'm  not  so 
sure  about  you." 

"Indeed.  You  think,  possibly,  Miss  Disbrow  might  get 
round  me,  eh?" 

"Well,  she  might — if  I  wasn't  here,"  said  Susan.  "She 
might  marry  you." 

My  explosion  of  laughter — I  am  ordinarily  a  quiet  per- 
son— startled  Susan.  "Have  I  said  something  awful 
again  ? ' '  she  cried. 

"Dreadful!"  I  sputtered,  wiping  my  eyes.  "Why,  you 
little  goose!  Don't  you  see  how  I  need  you?  To  plumb 
the  depths  for  me — to  protect  me  ?  I  thought  I  was  your 
guardian,  Susan;  but  that's  just  my  mannish  complacency. 
I'm  not  your  guardian  at  all,  dear.  You're  mine." 

But  I  saw  at  once  that  my  mirth  had  confused  her,  had 
hurt  her  feelings.  ...  I  reached  out  for  her  hands  and 
drew  her  upon  my  knees. 

"Susan,"  I  said,  "Miss  Disbrow  couldn't  marry  me 
even  if  she  got  round  me,  and  wanted  to.  You  see,  I  have 
a  wife  already." 

Susan  stared  at  me  with  wide,  frightened  eyes.  "You 
have,  Ambo  ?  Where  is  she  ? ' ' 

"She  left  me  two  years  ago." 

"Left  you?"  It  was  evident  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand. "Oh — what  will  she  say  when  she  comes  home  and 
finds  me  here?  She  won't  like  it;  she  won't  like  me!" 
wailed  Susan.  "I  know  she  won't." 

"Hush,  dear.  She's  not  coming  home  again.  She  made 
tip  her  mind  that  she  couldn't  live  with  me  any  more." 

"What's  her  name?" 

"Gertrude." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  35 

"Why  couldn't  she  live  with  you,  Ambo?" 

"She  said  I  was  cruel  to  her." 

"Weren't  you  good  to  her,  Ambo?  "Why?  Didn't  you 
like  her?" 

The  rapid  questions  were  so  Unexpected,  so  searching, 
that  I  gasped.  And  my  first  impulse  was  to  lie  to  Susan, 
to  put  her  off  with  a  few  conventional  phrases — phrases 
that  would  lead  the  child  to  suppose  me  a  wronged,  lonely, 
broken-hearted  man.  This  would  win  me  a  sympathy  I 
had  not  quite  realized  that  I  craved.  But  Susan's  eyes 
were  merciless,  and  I  couldn't  manage  it.  Instead,  I  sur- 
prised myself  by  blurting  out:  "That's  about  it,  Susan. 
I  didn't  like  her — enough.  "We  couldn't  hit  it  off,  some- 
how. I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  very  kind." 

Instantly  Susan's  thin  arms  went  about  my  neck,  and 
her  cheek  was  pressed  tight  to  mine. 

"Poor  Ambo!"  she  whispered.  "I'm  so  sorry  you 
weren't  kind.  It  must  hurt  you  so."  Then  she  jumped 
from  my  knees. 

"Ambo!"  she  demanded.  "Is  my  room — her  room? 
Is  it?"* 

"Certainly  not.  It  isn't  hers  any  more.  She's  never 
coming  back,  I  tell  you.  She  put  me  out  of  her  life  once 
for  all ;  and  God  knows  I  've  put  her  out  of  mine ! ' ' 

"If  you  can't  let  me  have  another  room,  Ambo — I'll 
have  to  go." 

' '  Why  ?  Hang  it  all,  Susan,  don 't  be  silly !  Don 't  make 
difficulties  where  none  exist!  What  an  odd,  overstrained 
child  you  are ! "  I  was  a  little  annoyed. 

"Yes,"  nodded  Susan  gravely,  "I  see  now  why  Ger- 
trude left  you.  But  she  must  be  awfully  stupid  not  to 
know  it's  only  your  outside  that's  made  like  that!" 

Next  morning,  without  a  permissive  word  from  me, 
Susan  had  Miss  Goucher  move  all  her  things  to  a  small 
bedroom  at  the  back  of  the  house,  overlooking  the  garden. 
This  silent  flitting  irritated  me  not  a  little,  and  that  after- 
noon I  had  a  frank  little  talk  with  Miss  Disbrow — franker, 
perhaps,  than  I  had  intended.  Miss  Disbrow  at  once  gave 


36  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

me  notice,  and  left  for  New  York  within  two  hours,  letting 
it  be  known  that  she  expected  her  trunks  to  be  sent 
after  her. 

"Gutter-snipes  are  not  my  specialty,"  was  her  parting 
word. 

IV 

There  proved  to  be  little  difficulty  in  getting  myself 
appointed  Susan's  guardian.  No  one  else  wanted  the 
child. 

I  promised  the  court  to  do  my  best  for  her;  to  treat 
her,  in  fact,  as  I  would  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  It  might 
well  be,  I  said,  that  before  long  I  should  legally  adopt 
her.  In  any  event,  if  this  for  some  unforeseen  reason 
proved  inadvisable,  I  assured  the  court  that  Susan's  fu- 
ture would  be  provided  for.  The  court  benignly  replied 
that,  as  it  stood,  I  was  acting  very  handsomely  in  the 
matter;  very  handsomely;  no  doubt  about  it.  But  there 
was  a  dim  glimmer  behind  the  juridic  spectacles  that 
seemed  to  imply:  "Handsomely,  my  dear  sir,  but  whether 
wisely  or  no  is  another  question,  which,  as  the  official 
champion  of  widows  and  orphans,  I  am  not  called  upon 
to  decide." 

It  was  with  a  new  sense  of  responsibility  that  I  opened 
an  account  in  Susan 's  name  with  a  local  savings  bank,  and 
a  week  later  added  a  short  but  efficient  codicil  to  my  will. 

In  the  meantime — but  with  alert  suspicions — I  inter- 
viewed several  highly  recommended  applicants  for  Miss 
Disbrow's  deserted  post;  only  to  find  them  wanting. 
Poor  things!  Combined,  they  could  hardly  have  met  all 
the  requirements,  aesthetic  and  intellectual,  which  I  had 
now  set  my  heart  upon  finding  in  one  lone  governess  for 
Susan!  It  would  have  needed,  by  this,  a  subtly  modern- 
ized  Hypatia  to  fulfill  my  ideal. 

I  might,  of  course,  have  waited  for  October  to  send 
Susan  to  a  select  private  school  in  the  vicinage,  patron- 
ized by  the  little  daughters  of  our  more  cautious  families. 
It  was,  by  neighborly  consent,  an  excellent  school,  where 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  37 

carefully  sterilized  cultures — physical,  moral,  mental,  and 
social — were  painlessly  injected  into  the  blue  blood 
streams  of  our  very  nicest  young  girls.  I  say  that  I  might 
have  done  so,  but  this  is  a  euphemism.  On  the  one  hand, 
I  shrank  from  exposing  Susan  to  possible  snubs;  on  the 
other,  a  little  bird  whispered  that  Miss  Garnett,  principal 
of  the  school,  would  not  care  to  expose  her  carefully  ster- 
ilized cultures  to  an  alien  contagion.  Bearers  of  con- 
tagion— whether  physical,  moral,  mental,  or  social — were 
not  sympathetic  to  Miss  Garnett 's  clientele.  In  Mrs.  Par- 
rot's iron  phrase,  there  are  places  for  such. 

Public  schools,  to  wit!  But  in  those  long-past  days — 
before  Susan  taught  me  that  there  are  just  two  kinds  of 
persons,  big  and  little;  those  you  can  do  nothing  for,  be- 
cause they  can  do  nothing  for  themselves,  and  those  you 
can  do  nothing  for,  because  they  can  do  everything  for 
themselves — in  those  days,  I  admit  that  I  had  my  own 
finicky  fears.  Public  schools  were  all  very  well  for  the 
children  of  men  who  could  afford  nothing  better.  They 
had,  for  example,  given  Bob  Blake's  daughter  a  pretty 
fair  preliminary  training;  but  they  would  never  do  for 
Ambrose  Hunt's  ward.  Noblesse — or,  at  any  rate,  largesse 
— oblige. 

Yet  here  was  a  quandary :  Public  schools,  in  my  estima- 
tion, being  too  vulgar  for  Susan;  and  Susan,  in  the  esti- 
mation of  Hillhouse  Avenue,  being  too  vulgar  for  private 
ones;  yea,  and  though  I  still  took  cognizance,  no  subtly 
modernized  Hypatia  coming  to  me  highly  recommended 
for  a  job — how  in  the  name  of  useless  prosperity  was  I  to 
get  poor  little  Susan  properly  educated  at  all! 

It  was  Susan  who  solved  this  difficulty  for  me,  as  she 
was  destined  to  solve  most  of  my  future  difficulties,  and 
all  of  her  own. 

She  soon  turned  the  public  world  about  her  into  an 
extra-select,  super-private  school.  She  impressed  all  who 
came  into  contact  with  her,  and  made  of  them  her  de- 
voted— if  often  unconscious — instructors.  And  she  be- 
gan by  impressing  Miss  Goucher  and  Nora  and  Sonia, 


38  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

and  Philip  Farmer,  assistant  professor  of  philosophy  in 
Yale  University;  and  Maltby  Phar,  anarchist  editor  of 
The  Garden  Exquisite;  and — first  and  chiefly — me. 

The  case  of  Phil  Farmer  was  typical.  Phil  and  I  had 
been  classmates  in  the  dark  backward  and  abysm,  and  we 
were  still,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  friends.  I  mean  that, 
though  we  had  few  tastes  in  common,  we  kept  on  liking 
each  other  a  good  deal.  Phil  was  a  gentle-hearted,  stiff- 
headed  sort  of  man,  with  a  conscience — formed  for  him 
and  handed  on  by  a  long  line  of  Unitarian  ministers — 
a  conscience  which  drove  him  to  incredible  labor  at  alti- 
tudes few  of  us  attain,  and  where  even  Phil,  it  seemed  to 
me,  found  breathing  difficult.  Not  having  been  thrown, 
•with  much  feminine  society  on  his  chosen  heights,  he  had 
remained  a  bachelor.  The  Metaphysical  Mountains  are 
said  to  be  infested  with  women,  but  they  cluster,  I  am 
told,  below  the  snow  line.  Phil  did  not  even  meet  them 
by  climbing  through  them;  he  always  ballooned  straight 
up  for  the  Unmelting;  and  when  he  occasionally  dropped 
down,  his  psychic  chill  seldom  wore  entirely  off  before 
he  was  ready  to  ascend  again.  This  protected  him ;  for 
he  was  a  tall,  dark-haired  fellow  whose  features  had  the 
clear-cut  gravity  of  an  Indian  chieftain ;  his  rare,  friendly 
smile  was  a  delight.  .  So  he  would  hardly  otherwise  have 
escaped. 

Perhaps  once  a  week  it  was  his  habit  to  drop  in  after 
dinner  and  share  with  me  three  or  four  pipes'  worth  of 
desultory  conversation.  We  seldom  talked  shop;  since 
mine  did  not  interest  him,  nor  his  me.  Mostly  we  just 
ambled  aimlessly  round  the  outskirts  of  some  chance 
neutral  topic — who  would  win  the  big  game,  for  exam- 
ple. It  amused  neither  of  us,  but  it  rested  us  both. 

One  night,  perhaps  a  month  after  Susan  had  come  to 
me,  I  returned  late  from  a  hot  day's  trip  to  New  York 
— one  more  unsuccessful  quest  after  Hypatia  Rediviva — 
and  found  Phil  and  Susan  sitting  together  on  the  screened 
terrace  at  the  back  of  my  house,  overlooking  the  garden. 
It  was  not  my  custom  to  spend  the  muggy  midsummer 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  39 

months  in  town,  but  this  year  I  had  been  unwilling  to 
leave  until  I  could  capture  and  carry  off  Hypatia  Rediviva 
with  me.  Moreover,  I  did  not  know  where  to  go.  The  cot- 
tage at  Watch  Hill  belonged  to  Gertrude,  and  was  in  con- 
sequence no  longer  used  by  either  of  us.  As  a  grass 
•widower  I  had,  in  summer,  just  travelled  about.  Now, 
•with  a  ward  of  fourteen  to  care  for,  just  travelling  about 
no  longer  seemed  the  easiest  solution;  yet  I  hated  camps 
and  summer  hotels.  I  should  have  to  rent  a  place  some- 
where, that  was  certain;  but  where?  With  the  world  to 
choose  from,  a  choice  proved  difficult.  I  was  marking 
time. 

My  stuffy  fruitless  trip  had  decided  me  to  mark  time 
no  longer.  Hypatia  or  no  Hypatia,  Susan  must  be  taken 
to  the  hills  or  the  sea.  It  was  this  thought  that  simmered 
in  my  brain  as  I  strolled  out  to  the  garden  terrace  and 
overheard  Susan  say  to  Phil:  "But  I  think  it's  muck 
easier  to  believe  in  the  devil  than  it  is  in  God!  Don't 
you?  The  devil  isn't  all- wise,  all-good,  all-every thing ! 
He's  a  lot  more  like  us." 

I  stopped  short  and  shamelessly  listened. 

"That's  an  interesting  concept,"  responded  Phil,  with 
liis  slow;  friendly  gravity.  "You  mean,  I  suppose,  that 
if  we  must  be  anthropomorphic,  we  ought  at  least  to  be 
consistent." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  funny,"  said  Susan,  "if  I  did  mean 
that  without  knowing  it?"  There  was  no  flippancy,  no 
irony  in  her  tone.  "  ' An-thro-po-mor~phic  .  .  .'  "  she 
added,  savoring  its  long-drawn-outness.  Susan  never 
missed  a  strange  word;  she  always  pounced  on  it  at  once, 
unerringly,  and  made  it  hers. 

"That's  a  Greek  word,"  explained  Phil. 

"It's  a  good  word,"  said  Susan,  "if  it  has  a  tremen- 
dous lot  packed  up  in  it.  If  it  hasn't,  it's  much  too  long." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Phil;  "but  it  has." 

"What? "asked  Susan. 

"It  would  take  me  an  hour  to  tell  you." 


40  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"Oh,  I'm  glad!"  cried  Susan.  "It  must  be  a  wonder- 
ful word!  Please  go  on  till  Ambo  comes!" 

I  decided  to  take  a  bath,  and  tiptoed  softly  and  un- 
detected away. 


After  that  evening  Phil  began  to  drop  in  every  two 
or"  three  nights,  and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  me  that 
the  increasing  frequency  of  his  visits  was  due  to  his  pro- 
gressive interest  in  Susan. 

"She's  a  curious  child,"  he  explained;  which  was  true 
in  any  sense  you  chose  to  take  it,  and  all  the  way  back 
to  the  Latin  curiosus,  "careful,  diligent,  thoughtful;  from 
cura,  care,"  and  so  on.  .  .  . 

"I've  never  seen  much  of  children,"  Phil  continued; 
"never  had  many  chances,  as  it  happens.  My  sister  has 
three  boys,  but  she's  married  to  a  narrow-gauge  mission- 
ary, and  lives — to  call  it  that — in  Ping  Lung,  or  some  such 
place.  I've  the  right  address  somewhere,  I  think — in  a 
notebook.  Bertha  sends  me  snapshots  of  the  boys  from 
time  to  time,  but  I  can't  say  I've  ever  felt  lonely  because 
of  their  exile.  Funny.  Perhaps  it's  because  I  never 
liked  Bertha  much.  Bertha  has  a  sloppy  mind — you  know, 
with  chance  scraps  of  things  floating  round  in  it.  Noth- 
ing coheres.  But  you  take  this  youngster  of  yours,  now 
— I  call  her  yours " 

"Do!"  I  interjected. 

"Well,  there's  the  opposite  extreme!  Susan  links  every- 
thing up,  everything  she  gets  hold  of — facts,  fancies,  guesses, 
feelings ;  the  whole  psychic  menagerie.  Chains  them  all  to' 
gether  somehow,  and  seems  to  think  they'll  get  on  com- 
fortably in  the  same  tent.  Of  course  they  won't — can't — 
and  that's  the  danger  for  her!  But  she's  stimulating, 
Hunt" — Phil  always  called  me  Hunt,  as  if  just  failing 
whole-heartedly  to  accept  me — "she's  positively  stimulat- 
ing! A  mind  like  that  must  be  trained;  thoroughly,  I 
mean.  "We  must  do  our  best  for  her." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  41 

The  "we"  amused  me  and — yes,  I  confess  it — nettled 
toe  a  little. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  I  said,  and  more  dryly  than 
I  had  meant  to;  "I'm  combing  the  country  now  for  a 
suitable  governess." 

"Governess!"  Phil  snorted.  "You  don't  want  a  gover- 
ness for  Susan.  You  want,  for  this  job,"  he  insisted,  "a 
male  intellect — a  vigorous,  disciplined  male  intellect. 
Music,  dancing,  water  colors — pshaw!  Deportment — how 
to  enter  a  drawing-room!  Fiddle-faddle!  How  to  enter 
the  Kingdom  of  God!  That's  more  Susan's  style,"  cried 
Phil,  with  a  most  unaccustomed  heat. 

I  laughed  at  him. 

"Are  you  willing  to  take  her  on,  Phil?"  I  asked.  "I 
believe  it's  been  done;  Epicurus  had  a  female  pupil  or 
two." 

"I  have  taken  her  on,"  Phil  replied,  quite  without  re- 
sentment. ' '  Hadn  't  you  noticed  it  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "only,  it's  the  other  way  round." 

"I've  been  appropriated,  is  that  it?" 

"Yes;  by  Susan.  We  all  have,  Phil.  That  vampire 
child  is  simply  draining  us,  my  dear  fellow." 

"All  right,"  said  Phil,  after  a  second's  pause,  "if  she's 
a  spiritual  vampire,  so  much  the  better.  Only,  she'll  need 
a  firm  hand.  We  must  give  her  suck  at  regular  hours; 
draw  up  a  plan.  You  can  tackle  the  languages,  if  you 
like — aesthetics,  and  all  that.  Ill  pin  her  down  to  math 
and  logic — teach  her  to  think  straight.  We  can  safely 
leave  her  to  pick  up  history  and  sociology  and  such  things 
for  herself.  You've  a  middling  good  library,  and  she'll 
browse. ' ' 

"Oh,  she'll  browse!    She's  browsing  now." 

"Poetry?"  demanded  Phil,  suspicion  in  his  tone, 
anxiety  in  his  eyes.  "If  she  runs  amuck  with  poetry 
too  soon,  there's  no  hope  for  her.  She'll  get  to  taking 
sensations  for  ideas,  and  that's  fatal.  A  mind  like 
Susan's " 


42  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

What  further  he  said  I  missed;  a  distant  tinkle  from 
the  front-door  bell  had  distracted  me. 

It  was  Maltby  Phar.  He  came  out  to  us  on  the  garden 
terrace,  unexpected  and  unannounced. 

"Whether  you  like  it  or  not,"  he  sighed  luxuriously, 
"I'm  here  for  a  week.  How's  the  great  experiment — eh? 
Am  I  too  late  for  the  bust-up?"  Then  he  nodded  to  Phil. 
"How  are  you,  Mr.  Farmer?  Delighted  to  meet  an  old 
adversary!  Shall  it  be  swords  or  pistols  this  time?  Or 
clubs?  But  I  warn  you,  I'm  no  fit  foe;  I'm  soft.  Mak- 
ing up  our  mammoth  Christmas  Number  in  July  always 
unnerves  me.  By  the  time  I  had  looked  over  a  dozen  de- 
signs for  our  cover  this  morning  and  found  Gaspar,  Mel- 
chior,  and  Balthazar  in  every  one  of  them,  mounted  on 
fancy  camels,  and  heading  for  an  exaggerated  star  in  the 
right  upper  dark-blue  corner,  I  succumbed  to  heat  and 
profanity,  turned  'em  all  face  downward,  shuffled  'em, 
grabbed  one  at  random,  and  then  fled  for  solace!  Solace," 
he  added,  dropping  into  a  wicker  armchair,  "can  begin, 
if  you  like,  by  taking  a  cool,  mellow,  liquid  form." 

I  rang. 

Phil,  I  saw,  was  looking  annoyed.  He  disliked  Maltby 
Phar,  openly  disliked  him;  so  I  felt  certain — I  was  per- 
haps rather  hoping — that  he  would  take  this  opportunity 
to  escape.  With  Phil  I  was  never  then  entirely  at  ease; 
but  in  those  days  I  was  wholly  so  with  Maltby.  Miss 
Goucher  answered  my  summons  in  person,  and  I  sug- 
gested a  sauterne  cup  for  my  friends.  Phil  frowned  on 
the  suggestion,  but  Maltby  beamed.  The  ayes  had  it, 
and  Miss  Goucher,  who  had  remained  neutral,  withdrew. 
It  was  Phil 's  chance ;  yet  he  surprised  me  by  settling  back 
and  refilling  his  pipe. 

"When  you  came,  Mr.  Phar,"  he  said,  his  tone  with- 
drawing toward  formality,  "we  were  discussing  the  edu- 
cation of  Susan." 

' '  Then  I  came  just  in  time ! ' '  cried  Maltby. 

"For  what?"  I  queried. 

"I  may  prevent  a  catastrophe.     If  you're  really  going 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  43 

to  see  this  thing  through,  Boz" — his  name  for  me — "for 
God's  sake  do  a  little  clear  thinking  first!  Don't  drift. 
Don 't  flounder.  Don 't  wallow.  Scrap  all  your  musty,  in- 
bred prejudices  once  for  all,  and  see  that  at  least  one  kid  on 
this  filthy  old  planet  gets  a  plain,  honest,  unsentimental- 
ized  account  of  what  she  is  and  what  the  world  is.  If  you 
can  bring  yourself  to  do  that,  Susan  will  be  unique.  She 
will  be  the  first  educated  woman  in  America." 

"  'What  she  is  and  what  the  world  is,'  "  repeated  Phil, 
slowly.  "What  is  the  world,  may  I  ask?  And  what  is 
Susan?" 

There  was  a  felt  tenseness  in  the  moment;  the  hush  be- 
fore battle.  We  leaned  forward  a  little  from  our  easy- 
chairs,  and  no  one  of  us  noticed  that  Susan  had  slipped 
noiselessly  to  the  window  seat  by  the  opened  library  win- 
dow which  gave  upon  the  terrace.  But  there,  as  we  later 
discovered,  she  was ;  and  there,  for  the  present  silently,  she 
remained. 

"The  world,"  began  Maltby  Phar  sententiously,  "is  a 
pigsty." 

"Very  well,"  interrupted  Phil;  "I'll  grant  you  that  to 
start  with.  What  follows?" 

' '  What  we  see  about  us, ' '  said  Maltby. 

"And  what  do  we  see?"  asked  Phil. 

At  this  inopportune  moment  Miss  Goucher  reappeared, 
bearing  a  Sheffield  tray,  on  which  stood-  three  antique 
Venetian  goblets,  and  a  tall  pitcher  of  rare  Bohemian 
glass,  filled  to  the  brim  with  an  iced  sauterne  cup  gar- 
nished with  fresh  strawberries  and  thin  disks  of  pineapple. 
Nothing  less  suggestive  of  the  conventional  back-lot  pig- 
gery could  have  been  imagined.  By  the  time  a  table  had 
been  placed,  our  goblets  filled,  and  Miss  Goucher  had  re- 
tired, Maltby  had  decided  to  try  for  a  new  opening. 

"Excellent!"  he  resumed,  having  drained  and  refilled 
his  goblet.  ' '  Now,  Mr.  Farmer,  if  you  really  wish  to  know 
what  the  world  is,  and  what  Susan  is,  I  am  ready.  Have 
with  you!  And  by  the  way,  Boz,"  he  interjected,  sipping 
his  wine,  "your  new  housekeeper  is  one  in  a  thousand. 


44  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Mrs.  Parrot  was  admirable;  I've  been  absurdly  regretting 
her  loss.  But  Mrs.  Parrot  never  quite  rose  to  this!" 

Phil's  tongue  clicked  an  impatient  protest  against  the 
roof  of  his  mouth.  "I  am  still  unenlightened,  Mr.  Phar." 

"True,"  said  Maltby.  "That's  the  worst  of  you  ro- 
mantic idealists.  It's  your  permanent  condition."  He 
settled  back  in  his  chair,  and  fell  to  his  old  trick  of  slowly 
caressing  the  back  of  his  left  hand  with  the  palm  of  his 
right.  "The  world,  my  dear  Mr.  Farmer,"  he  contin- 
ued, "the  universe,  indeed,  as  we  have  come  gradually  to 
know  it,  is  an  infinity  of  blindly  clashing  forces.  They 
have  always  existed,  they  will  always  exist;  they  have  al- 
ways been  blind,  and  they  always  will  be.  Anything  may 
happen  in  such  an  infinity,  and  we — this  world  of  men 
and  microbes — are  one  of  the  things  which  has  temporarily 
happened.  It's  regrettable,  but  it  is  so.  And  though 
there  is  nothing  final  we  can  do  about  it,  and  very  little 
in  any  sense,  still — this  curious  accident  of  the  human  in- 
tellect enables  us  to  do  something.  We  can  at  least  ad- 
mit the  plain  facts  of  our  horrible  case.  Here,  a  self- 
realizing  accident,  we  briefly  are.  Death  will  dissipate  us 
one  by  one,  and  the  world  in  due  time.  That  much  we 
know.  But  while  we  last,  why  must  we  add  imaginary 
evils  to  our  real  ones,  and  torment  ourselves  with  false 
hopes  and  ridiculous  fears? 

"Why  can't  each  one  of  us  learn  to  say:  'I  am  an  ac- 
cident of  no  consequence  in  a  world  that  means  nothing. 
I  might  be  a  stone,  but  I  happen  to  be  a  man.  Hence, 
certain  things  give  me  pleasure,  others  pain.  And,  ob- 
viously, in  an  accidental,  meaningless  world  I  can  owe  no 
duty  to  anyone  but  myself.  I  owe  it  to  myself  to  get  as 
much  pleasure  and  to  avoid  as  much  pain  as  possible.  Un- 
swerving egotism  should  be  my  law."  He  paused  to  sip 
again,  with  a  side  glance  toward  Phil. 

"Elementary,  all  this,  I  admit.  I  apologize  for  re- 
stating it  to  a  scholar.  But  such  are  the  facts  as  science 
reveals  them — are  they  not  ?  You  have  to  try  somehow  to 
go  beyond  science  to  get  round  them.  And  where  do'  you 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  45 

go — you  romantic  idealists?  Where  can  you  go?  No- 
where outside  of  yourselves,  I  take  it.  So  you  plunge, 
perforce,  down  below  the  threshold  of  reason  into  a  mad 
chaos  of  instinct  and  desire  and  dream.  And  what  there 
do  you  find?  Bugaboos,  my  dear  sir,  simply  bugaboos: 
divine  orders,  hells,  heavens,  purgatories,  moral  sanctions 
• — all  the  wild  insanity,  in  two  words,  that  had  made  our 
wretched  lives  even  less  worth  living  than  they  could  and 
should  be!" 

"Should ?  Why  should f ' '  asked  Phil.  ' '  Granting  your 
universe,  who  gives  a  negligible  damn  for  a  little  discom- 
fort more  or  less?" 

"I  do!"  Maltby  asserted.  "I  want  all  the  comfort  I 
can  get;  and  I  could  get  far  more  in  a  world  of  clear-see- 
ing, secular  egotists  than  I  can  in  this  mixed  mess  of  su- 
perstitious, sentimental  idealists  which  we  choose  to  call 
civilized  society!  Take  just  one  minor  practical  illustra- 
tion: Say  that  some  virgin  has  wakened  my  desire,  and 
I  hers.  In  a  reasonable  society  we  could  give  each  other 
a  certain  amount  of  passing  satisfaction.  But  do  we  do 
it?  No.  The  virgin  has  been  taught  to  believe  in  a  mys- 
tical, mischievous  something,  called  Purity!  To  follow 
her  natural  instinct  would  be  a  sin.  If  you  sin  and  get 
caught  on  earth,  society  will  punish  you ;  and  if  you  don  't 
get  caught  here,  you'll  infallibly  get  caught  hereafter — 
and  then  God  will  punish  you.  So  the  virgin  tortures  her- 
self and  tortures  me — unless  I'm  willing  to  marry  her, 
which  would  be  certain  to  prove  the  worst  of  tortures  for 
us  both.  And  there  you  are." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Susan  spoke  from  her  win- 
dow. 

"Pearl  and  papa  weren't  married,  Mr.  Phar;  but  they 
didn't  get  much  fun  out  of  not  being." 

I  confess  that  I  felt  a  nervous  chill  start  at  the  base  of 
my  spine  and  shiver  up  toward  my  scalp.  Even  Phil, 
the  man  of  Indian  gravity,  looked  for  an  instant  per- 
turbed. 


46  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"Susan!"  I  demanded  sharply.  "Have  you  been  lis» 
tening?" 

"Mustn't  I  listen?"  asked  Susan.  "Why  notf  Are 
you  cross,  Ambo  ? ' ' 

"The  mischief's  done,"  said  Phil  to  me  quietly;  "bet- 
ter not  make  a  point  of  it." 

"Please  don't  be  cross,  Ambo,"  Susan  pleaded,  slip- 
ping through  the  window  to  the  terrace  and  coming 
straight  over  to  me.  "Mr.  Phar  feels  just  the  way  papa 
did  about  things;  only  papa  couldn't  talk  so  splendidly. 
He  had  a  very  poor  vocabulary" — "Vocabulary!"  I 
gasped — "except  nasty  words  and  swearing.  But  he 
meant  just  what  Mr.  Phar  means,  inside." 

Phil,  as  she  ended,  began  to  make  strange  choking 
noises  and  retired  suddenly  into  his  handkerchief.  Maltby 
put  down  his  glass  and  stared  at  Susan. 

"Young  person,"  he  finally  said,  "you  ought  to  be 
spanked!  Don't  you  know  it's  an  unforgivable  sin  to  spy 
on  your  elders?" 

"But  you  don't  believe  in  sin,"  responded  Susan 
calmly,  without  the  tiniest  suspicion  of  pertness  in  her  tone 
or  bearing.  "You  believe  in  doing  what  you  want  to. 
/  wanted  to  hear  what  you  were  saying,  Mr.  Phar. ' ' 

"Of  course  you  did!"  Phil  struck  in.  "But  next  time, 
Susan,  as  a  concession  to  good  manners,  you  might  let  us 
know  you're  in  the  neighborhood — ?" 

Susan  bit  her  lower  lip  very  hard  before  she  managed 
to  reply. 

"Yes.  I  will  next  time.  I'm  sorry,  Phil."  (Phil!) 
Then  she  turned  to  Maltby.  "But  I  wasn't  spying!  I 
just  didn't  know  you  would  any  of  you  mind." 

"We  don't,  really,"  I  said.  "Sit  down,  dear.  You're 
always  welcome."  I  had  been  doing  some  stiff,  concen- 
trated thinking  in  the  last  three  minutes,  and  now  I  had 
taken  the  plunge.  "The  truth  is,  Susan,"  I  went  on, 
' '  that  most  children  who  live  in  good  homes,  who  are  what 
is  called  'well  brought  up,'  are  carefully  sheltered  from 
any  facts  or  words  or  thoughts  which  their  parents  do  not 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  47 

consider  wholesome  or  pleasant.  Parents  try  to  give  their 
children  only  what  they  have  found  to  be  best  in  life; 
they  try  to  keep  them  in  ignorance  of  everything  else." 

"But  they  can't,"  said  Susan.  "At  least,  they 
couldn't  in  Birch  Street." 

"No.  Nor  elsewhere.  But  they  try.  And  they  always 
make  believe  to  themselves  that  they  have  succeeded.  So 
it's  supposed  to  be  very  shocking  and  dangerous  for  a  girl 
of  your  age  to  listen  to  the  free  conversation  of  men  of 
our  age.  That's  the  reason  we  all  felt  a  little  guilty,  at 
first,  when  we  found  you  'd  been  overhearing  us. ' ' 

' '  How  funny, ' '  said  Susan.    ' '  Papa  never  cared. ' ' 

"Good  for  him!"  exclaimed  Maltby.  "I  didn't  feel 
guilty,  for  one!  I  refuse  to  be  convicted  of  so  hypocrit- 
ically squeamish  a  reaction!" 

"Oh!"  Susan  sighed,  almost  with  rapture.  "You 
know  such  a  lot  of  words,  Mr.  Phar!  You  can  say  any- 
thing." 

"Thanks,"  said  Maltby;  "I  rather  flatter  myself  that 
I  can." 

"And  you  do!"  grunted  Phil.  "But  words,"  he  took 
up  the  dropped  threads  rather  awkwardly, ' '  are  nothing  in 
themselves,  Susan.  You  are  too  fond  of  mere  words.  It 
isn't  words  that  matter;  it's  ideas." 

"Yes,  Phil,"  said  Susan  meekly,  "but  I  love  words — 
best  of  all  when  they're  pictures." 

Phil  frowned,  without  visible  effect  upon  Susan.  I  saw 
that  her  mind  had  gone  elsewhere. 

"Ambo?" 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"You  mustn't  ever  worry  about  me,  Ambo.  My  hear- 
ing or  knowing  things — or  saying  them.  I — I  guess  I'm 
different." 

Maltby 's  face  was  a  study  in  suppressed  amazement; 
Phil  was  still  frowning.  It  was  all  too  much  for  me,  and 
I  laughed — laughed  from  the  lower  ribs! 

Susan  laughed  with  me,  springing  from  her  chair  to 


48  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

throw  her  arms  tightly  round  my  neck  in  one  big  joyous 
suffocating  hug! 

' '  Oh,  Ambo ! ' '  she  cried,  breathless.  ' '  Isn  't  it  going  to 
be  fun — all  of  us — together — now  we  can  talk!" 

VI 

The  following  evening,  after  dinner,  Maltby  Phar, 
still  a  little  ruffled  by  Susan's  unexpected  vivacities  of 
the  night  before,  retired  to  the  library  with  pipe  and 
book,  and  Susan  and  I  sat  alone  together  on  the  garden 
terrace.  It  was  dusk.  The  heavy  air  of  the  past  week 
had  been  quickened  and  purified  by  an  afternoon  thunder- 
storm. Little  cool  puffs  came  to  us  across  a  bed  of  glim- 
mering white  phlox,  bearing  with  them  its  peculiar,  loamy 
fragrance.  Smoke  from  my  excellent  cigarette  eddied 
now  and  then  toward  Susan. 

Silence  had  stolen  upon  her  as  the  afterglow  faded,  re- 
vealing the  first  patient  stars.  Already  I  had  learned  to 
respect  Susan's  silences.  She  was  not,  in  the  usual  sense 
of  uncertain  temper,  of  nervous  irritability,  a  moody 
child;  yet  she  had  her  moods — moods,  if  I  may  put  it  so, 
of  extraordinary  definition.  There  were  hours,  not  too 
frequent  to  be  disturbing,  when  she  withdrew;  there  is 
no  better  word  for  it.  At  such  times  her  thin,  alert  little 
frame  was  motionless;  she  would  sit  as  if  holding  a  pose 
for  a  portrait,  her  chin  a  trifle  lifted,  her  eyes  focusing  on 
no  visible  object,  her  hands  lying — always  with  the  palms 
upward — in  her  lap.  I  supposed  that  now,  with  the 
veiled  yet  sharply  scented  dusk,  such  a  mood  had  crept 
upon  her.  But  for  once  I  was  mistaken.  Susan,  this 
time,  had  not  withdrawn;  she  was  intensely  aware. 

"Ambo" — the  suddenness  with  which  she  spoke  startled 
me — "you  ought  to  have  lots  of  children.  You  ought  to 
have  a  boy,  anyway;  not  just  a  girl." 

"A  boy?    Why,  dear?    Are  you  lonely?" 

"Of  course  not;  with  you — and  Phil!" 

"Then  whatever  in  the  world  put  such  a  crazy " 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  49 

Susan  interrupted;  a  bad  habit  of  hers,  never  subse- 
quently broken,  and  due,  doubtless,  to  an  instinctive  im- 
patience of  foreseeable  remarks. 

"You're  so  awfully  rich,  Ambo.  You  could  have  dozens 
and  not  feel  it — except  that  they'd  get  in  your  way  some- 
times and  make  your  outside  cross.  But  two  wouldn't  be 
much  more  trouble  than  one.  It  might  seem  a  little  crowded 
• — at  first;  but  after  while,  Ambo,  you'd  hardly  notice  it." 

"Possibly.  Still — nice  boys  don't  grow  on  bushes, 
Susan.  Not  the  kind  of  brothers  I  should  have  to  insist 
upon  for  you!" 

"I'm  not  so  fussy  as  all  that,"  said  Susan.  "And  it 
isn't  fair  that  I  should  have  everything.  Besides,  Ambo, 
boys  are  much  nicer  than  girls.  Honestly  they  are." 

"Oh,  are  they!  I'm  afraid  you  haven't  had  much  ex- 
perience with  boysl  Most  of  them  are  disgusting  young 
savages.  Really,  Susan!  Their  hands  and  feet  are  too 
big  for  them,  and  their  voices  don't  fit.  They're  always 
breaking  things — irreplaceable  things  for  choice,  and  rais- 
ing the  devil  of  a  row.  Take  my  word  for  it,  dear,  please. 
I'm  an  ex-boy  myself;  I  know  all  about  'em!  They  were 
never  created  for  civilized  human  companionship.  Why, 
I'd  rather  give  you  a  young  grizzly  bear  and  be  done  with 
it,  than  present  you  with  the  common-or-garden  brother! 
But  if  you'd  like  a  nice  quiet  little  sister  some  day,  may- 
be  " 

' '  I  wouldn  't, ' '  said  Susan. 

She  was  silent  again  for  several  moments,  pondering.  1 
observed  her  furtively.  Nothing  was  more  distant  from 
my  desire  than  any  addition,  of  any  age,  male  or  female, 
to  my  present  family.  Heaven,  in  its  great  and  unwonted 
kindness,  had  sent  me  Susan;  she  was — to  my  thinking — 
perfect;  and  she  was  enough.  Whether  in  art  or  in  life  I 
am  no  lover  of  an  avoidable  anticlimax.  But  Susan's 
secret  purposes  were  not  mine. 

"Ambo,"  she  resumed,  "I  guess  if  you'd  ever  lived  in 
Birch  Street  you'd  feel  differently  about  boys." 

"I  doubt  it,  Susan." 


50  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"I'm  sure  you'd  feel  differently  about  Jimmy." 

"Jimmy?" 

"Jimmy  Kane,  Ambo — my  Jimmy.  Haven't  I  ever 
told  you  about  him?" 

Guilefully,  persuasively,  she  edged  her  chair  nearer  to 
mine. 

It  was  then  that  I  first  learned  of  Jimmy's  battle  for 
Susan,  of  the  bloody  but  righteous  downfall  of  Giuseppe 
Gonfarone,  and  of  many  another  incident  long  treasured 
in  the  junior  annals  of  Birch  Street.  Thus,  little  by  lit- 
tle, though  the  night  deepened  about  us,  my  eyes  were  un- 
sealed. What  a  small  world  I  had  always  lived  in !  For 
how  long  had  it  seemed  to  me  that  romance  was — approxi- 
mately— dead !  My  fingers  tightened  on  Susan 's,  while  the 
much-interrogated  stars  hung  above  us  in  their  mysterious 

orbits  and But  no,  that  is  the  pathetic  fallacy.  Stars 

— are  they  not  matter,  merely?  They  could  not  smile. 

' '  Don 't  you  truly  think,  Ambo, ' '  suggested  Susan,  ' '  that 
Jimmy  ought  to  have  a  better  chance  ?  If  he  doesn  't  get 
it,  hell  have  to  work  in  a  factory  all  his  life.  And  here 
I  am — with  you!" 

"Yes.  But  consider,  Susan — there  are  thousands  of 
boys  like  Jimmy.  I  can 't  father  them  all,  you  know. ' ' 

"I  don't  want  you  to  father  them  all,"  said  Susan; 
"and  there  isn't  anybody  like  Jimmy!  You'll  see." 

It  came  over  me  as  she  spoke  that  I  was,  however  Tin- 
willingly,  predestined  to  see. 

Maltby  Phar  thought  otherwise.  That  night,  after 
Susan  had  gone  up  to  bed,  I  talked  the  thing  over  with 
him — trying  for  an  airy,  detached  tone;  the  tone  of  one 
who  discusses  an  indifferent  matter  for  want  of  a  more 
urgent.  Maltby  was  not,  I  fear,  deceived. 

"My  dear  Boz,"  he  pleaded,  "buck  up!  Get  a  fresh 
grip  on  your  individuality  and  haul  it  back  from  the  brink 
of  destruction !  If  you  don 't,  that  little  she-demon  above- 
stairs  will  push  it  over  into  the  gulf,  once  for  all !  You  '11 
be  nobody.  You'll  be  her  dupe — her  slave.  How  can  you 
smile,  man!  I'm  quite  serious,  and  I  warn  you.  Fight 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  51 

the  good  fight!     Defend  the  supreme  rights  of  your  ego, 
before  it's  too  late!" 

"Why  these  tragic  accents?"  I  parried.  "It's  not 
likely  the  washlady's  kid  would  want  to  come;  or  his 
mother  let  him.  Susan  idealizes  him,  of  course.  He's 
probably  quite  commonplace  and  content  as  he  is.  No 
harm,  though,  if  it  pleases  Susan,  in  looking  him  over?" 

Maltby  took  up  his  book  again.  He  dismissed  me. 
"Whom  the  gods  destroy "  he  muttered,  and  ostenta- 
tiously turned  a  page. 

vn 

My  feeling  that  I  was  predestined  to  see,  with  Susan, 
that  there  wasn't  anybody  like  Jimmy — that  I  was  fur- 
ther predestined  to  take  him  into  my  heart  and  home — 
proved,  very  much  to  my  own  surprise  and  to  the  disap- 
pointment of  Susan,  to  be  unjustified.  This  was  the  first 
bitter  defeat  that  Susan  had  been  called  upon  to  bear  since 
leaving  Birch  Street.  She  took  it  quietly,  but  deeply, 
which  troubled  my  private  sense  of  relief,  and  indeed 
turned  it  into  something  very  like  regret.  The  simple 
fact  was  that  much  had  happened  in  Birch  Street  since 
the  tragedy  of  the  four-room  house ;  life  had  not  stood  still 
there;  chance  and  change — deaths  and  marriages  and 
births — had  altered  the  circumstances  of  whole  families. 
In  short,  that  steady  flux  of  mortality,  which  respects 
neither  the  dignity  of  the  Hillhouse  Avenues  nor  the  ob- 
scurity of  the  Birch  Streets  of  the  world,  had  in  its  secret 
courses  already  borne  Jimmy  Kane — elsewhere.  Pre- 
cisely where,  even  his  mother  did  not  know ;  and  first  and 
last  it  was  her  entire  and  passionate  ignorance  as  to 
Jimmy's  present  location  which  foiled  us.  "West"  is  a 
geographical  expression  certainly,  but  it  is  not  an  address. 

Jimmy's  mother  lived  with  her  unwashed  brood,  you 
will  remember,  above  old  Heinze's  grocery  store,  and  on 
the  following  afternoon  I  ran  Susan  over  there  for  a  tact- 
ful reconnaissance.  At  Susan's  request  we  went  slowly 
along  Birch  Street  from  its  extreme  right  end  to  its  ulti- 


52  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

mate  wrong,  crossing  the  waste  land  and  general  dump  at 
the  base  of  East  Rock — historic  ground! — mounting  the 
long  incline  beyond,  and  so  passing  the  four-room  house, 
which  now  seemed  to  be  occupied  by  at  least  three  families 
of  that  hardy,  prolific  race  discourteously  known  to  young 
America  as  "wops."  Throughout  this  little  tour  Susan 
withdrew,  and  I  respected  her  silence.  She  had  not  yet 
spoken  when  we  stopped  at  Heinze's  corner  and  de- 
scended. 

Here  first  it  was  that  forebodings  of  chance  and  change 
met  us  upon  the  pavement,  in  the  person  of  old  Heinze 
himself,  standing  melancholy  and  pensive  before  the 
screened  doorway  of  his  domain.  Him  Susan  accosted. 
He  did  not  at  first  recognize  her,  but  recollection  returned 
to  him  as  she  spoke. 

"Ach,  so!"  he  exclaimed,  peering  with  mildest  surprise 
above  steel-rimmed  spectacles.  "Id  iss  you — nod?  Leedle 
Susanna!" 

My  formal  introduction  followed;  nor  was  it  without 
a  glow  of  satisfaction  that  I  heard  old  Heinze  assure  me 
that  he  had  read  certain  of  my  occasional  essays  with  at- 
tention and  respect.  "Ard  for  ard — yah!  Dot  iss  your 
credo,"  he  informed  me,  with  tranquil  noddings  of  his 
bumpy,  oddly  shaped  skull.  "Dot  iss  der  credo  of  all 
arisdograds.  Id  iss  nod  mine." 

But  Susan  was  in  no  mood  for  general  ideas;  she  de- 
scended at  once  to  particulars,  and  announced  that  we 
were  going  up  to  see  Mrs.  Kane.  Then  old  Heinze  snag- 
gily,  and  I  thought  rather  wearily,  smiled. 

"Aber,"  he  objected,  lifting  twisted,  rheumatic  hands, 
"dere  iss  no  more  such  a  vooman!  Alretty,  leedle  Su- 
sanna, I  haf  peen  an  oldt  fool  like  oders.  I  haf  made  her 
my  vife."  And  though  he  continued  to  smile,  he  also 
sighed. 

Our  ensuing  interview  with  Frau  Heinze,  formerly  the 
Widow  Kane,  fully  interpreted  this  sigh.  Prosperity, 
Susan  later  assured  me,  had  not  improved  her.  She 
greeted  us,  above  the  shop,  in  her  small,  shiny,  colored 


53 

lithograph  of  a  parlor,  with  unveiled  suspicion.  Her  eyes 
were  hostile.  She  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted,  did  Mrs. 
Heinze,  that  we  could  have  no  kindly  purpose  in  intruding 
upon  her.  A  dumpy,  grumpy  little  woman,  with  the  par- 
boiled hands  and  complexion  of  long  years  at  the  wash- 
tubs,  her  present  state  of  comparative  freedom  from  bond- 
age had  not  lightened  her  heart.  Her  irritability,  I  told 
Susan  after  our  escape,  was  doubtless  due  to  the  fact 
that  she  could  not  share  in  old  Heinze 's  intellectual  and 
literary  tastes.  Susan  laughed. 

"She  wouldn't  bother  much  about  that;  Birch  Street's 
never  lonely,  and  it's  only  a  step  to  the  State  Street 
movies.  No;  I  think  it's  corsets." 

Corsets?  The  word  threw  a  flood  of  light.  I  saw  at 
once  that  it  must  be  a  strain  upon  any  disposition  to  re- 
turn after  a  long  and  figureless  widowhood  to  the  steel, 
buckram,  and  rebellious  curves  of  conventional  married 
life.  I  remembered  the  harnesslike  creaking  of  Mrs. 
Heinze 's  waistline,  and  forgave  her  much. 

There  was  really  a  good  deal  to  forgive.  It  was  neither 
Susan's  fault  nor  mine  that  turned  our  call  into  a  bad 
quarter  of  an  hour.  I  had  looked  for  a  pretty  scene  as  I 
mounted  the  stairs  behind  Susan.  I  had  pictured  the 
child,  in  her  gay  summer  frock,  bursting  like  sunshine 
into  Mrs.  Heinze 's  stuffy  quarters — and  so  forth.  Noth- 
ing of  the  kind  occurred. 

"Who  is  ut?"  demanded  Mrs.  Heinze,  peering  forth. 
"Oh,  it's  you— Bob  Blake's  girl.  "What  do  you  want?" 
Susan  explained.  "Well,  come  in  then,"  said  Mrs.  Heinze. 

Susan,  less  daunted  than  I  by  her  reception,  marched 
in  and  asked  at  once  for  Jimmy.  At  the  sound  of  his 
name  Mrs.  Heinze 's  suspicions  were  sharply  focused.  If 
the  gentleman  knew  anything  about  Jimmy,  all  right,  let 
him  say  so!  It  wouldn't  surprise  her  to  hear  he'd  been 
gettin'  himself  into  trouble!  It  would  surprise  her  much 
more,  she  implied,  if  he  had  not.  But  if  he  had,  she 
couldn  't  be  responsible — nor  Heinze  either,  the  poor  man ! 
Jimmy  was  sixteen — a  man  grown,  you  might  say.  Let 


54  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

him  look  after  himself,  then;  and  more  shame  to  him  for 
the  way  he'd  acted! 

But  what  way  he  had  acted,  and  why,  Susan  at  first 
found  it  difficult  to  determine. 

"Oh!"  she  at  length  protested,  following  cloudy  sug- 
gestions of  evil  courses.  "Jimmy  couldn't  do  anything 
mean!  You  know  he  couldn't.  It  isn't  in  him!" 

"Isn't  ut  indeed!  Me  slavin'  for  him  and  the 
childer  ever  since  Kane  was  took  off  sudden — and  not  a 
cint  saved  for  the  livin' — let  alone  the  dead!  Slavin' 
and  worritin' — the  way  you'd  think  Jimmy 'd  'a'  jumped 
wid  joy  when  Heinze  offered!  And  an  easier  man  not  to 
be  found — though  he's  got  his  notions.  What  man  hasn't? 
If  it's  not  one  thing,  it's  another.  'Except  his  beer,  he 
don't  drink  much,'  I  says  to  Jimmy;  'and  that's  more 
than  I  could  say  for  your  own  father,  rest  his  soul!' 
'My  father  wasn't  a  Dutchman,'  Jimmy  says;  givin'  me 
his  lip  to  me  face.  'He  didn't  talk  out  against  the  Pope/ 
he  says.  'Nor  the  Pris 'dint,' he  says.  'He  wasn't  a  stink- 
in'  Socialist,'  he  says — usin'  them  very  words!  'No,'  I 
says,  'he  was  a  Demycrat — and  what's  ut  to  you?  All 
men  11  be  blatherin '  polytics  after  hours, '  I  says.  '  Heinze 
manes  no  harm  by  ut,  no  more  nor  the  rest.  'Tis  just  his 
talk,'  I  says.  And  after  that  we  had  more  words,  and  I 
laid  me  palm  to  his  head." 

"Oh!"  cried  Susan. 

"I'll  not  take  lip  from  a  son  of  mine,  Susan  Blake; 
nor  from  you,  wid  all  your  grand  clothes!  I've  seen  you 
too  often  lackin'  a  modest  stitch  to  your  back!" 

I  hastened  to  intervene. 

"Well  not  trouble  you  longer,  Mrs.  Heinze,  if  you'll 
only  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  where  Jimmy  is  now.  He 
was  very  kind  to  Susan  once,  and  she  wants  to  thank  him 
in  some  way.  I've  a  proposition  to  make  him — which 
might  be  to  his  advantage." 

"Oh — so  that's  ut  at  last!  Well,  Susan  Blake,  you've 
had  the  grand  luck  for  the  likes  of  you!  But  you're  too 
late.  Jimmy's  gone." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  55 

"Gone?" 

"  'Tis  the  gratitude  I  get  for  raisin'  him!  Gone  he 
is,  wid  what  he'd  laid  by — twinty-sivin  dollars — and  no 
word  to  nobody.  There 's  a  son  for  y e ! " 

"But — oh,  Mrs.  Heinze — gone  where?" 

"West.  That's  all  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Heinze.  "He 
left  a  line  to  say  he'd  gone  West.  We've  not  had  a  scrap 
from  him  since.  If  he  comes  to  a  bad  end " 

"Jimmy  won't  come  to  a  bad  end!"  struck  in  Susan 
sharply.  "He  did  just  right  to  leave  you.  Good-by." 
With  that  she  seized  my  arm  and  swept  me  with  her  from 
the  room. 

"Glory  be  to  God!  Susan  Blake — the  airs  of  her  now  I'* 
followed  us  shrilly,  satirically,  down  the  stairs. 

vin 

Maltby's  visit  came  to  an  end,  and  for  the  first  time  I 
did  not  regret  his  departure.  For  some  reason,  which  per- 
haps purposely  I  left  unanalyzed,  Maltby  was  beginning 
to  get  a  trifle  on  my  nerves.  But  let  that  pass.  Once  he 
was  gone,  Phil  Farmer  drew  a  long  breath  and  plunged 
with  characteristic  thoroughness  into  his  comprehensive 
scheme  for  the  education  of  Susan.  Her  enthusiasm  for 
this  scheme  was  no  less  contagious  than  his  own,  and  I 
soon  found  myself  yielding  to  her  wish  to  stay  on  in  New 
Haven  through  the  summer,  and  let  in  for  daily  lessons  at 
regular  hours — very  much  to  my  astonishment,  the  role 
of  schoolmaster  being  one  which  I  had  always  flattered  my- 
self I  was  temperamentally  unfitted  to  sustain. 

I  soon  discovered,  however,  that  teaching  a  mentally 
alert,  whimsically  unexpected,  stubbornly  diligent,  and 
always  grateful  pupil  is  among  the  most  stimulating  and 
delightful  of  human  occupations.  My  own  psychic  lazi- 
ness, which  had  been  long  creeping  upon  me,  vanished  in 
this  new  atmosphere  of  competition — competition,  for  that 
is  what  it  came  to,  with  the  unwearying  Phil.  It  was  a 
real  renascence  for  me.  Forsaken  gods!  how  I  studied— 


56  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

off  hours  and  on  the  sly!  My  French  was  excellent,  my 
Italian  fair;  but  my  small  Latin  and  less  Greek  needed 
endless  attention.  Yet  I  rather  preen  myself  upon  my 
success;  though  Phil  has  always  maintained  that  I  over- 
fed Susan  with  aesthetic  flummery,  thus  dulling  the  edge 
of  her  appetite  for  his  own  more  wholesome  daily  bread. 

In  one  respect,  at  least,  I  disagreed  fundamentally 
with  Phil,  and  here — through  sheer  force  of  conviction — • 
I  triumphed.  Phil,  who  lived  exclusively  in  things  of  the 
mind,  would  have  turned  this  sensitive  child  into  a  be- 
mused scholar,  a  female  bookworm.  This,  simply,  I  would 
not  and  did  not  permit.  If  she  had  a  soul,  she  had  a  body, 
too,  and  I  was  determined  that  it  should  be  a  vigorous, 
happy  body  before  all  else.  For  her  sake  solely — for  I 
am  too  easily  an  indolent  man — I  took  up  riding  again, 
and  tennis,  and  even  pushed  myself  into  golf;  with  the 
result  that  my  nervous  dyspepsia  vanished,  and  my  irri- 
tability along  with  it;  with  the  more  excellent  result  that 
Susan  filled  and  bloomed  and  ate  (for  her)  three  really 
astonishing  meals  a  day. 

It  was  a  busy  life — a  wonderful  life !  Hard  work — hard 
play — fun — travel.  .  .  .  Ah,  those  years! 

But  I  am  leaping  ahead ! 

Yet  I  have  but  one  incident  left  to  record  of  those 
earliest  days  with  Susan — an  incident  which  had  impor- 
tant, though  delayed,  results — affecting  in  various  ways, 
for  long  unforeseen,  Susan 's  career,  and  the  destiny  of  sev- 
eral other  persons,  myself  among  them. 

Sonia,  Susan's  little  Eussian  maid,  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it  all ;  and  the  first  hint  of  the  rather  sordid  affair  came 
to  me,  all  unprepared,  from  the  lips  of  Miss  Goucher.  She 
sought  me  out  in  my  private  study,  whither  I  had  re- 
tired after  dinner  to  write  a  letter  or  two — a  most  un- 
usual proceeding  on  her  part,  and  on  mine — and  she  asked 
at  once  in  her  brief,  hard,  respectful  manner  for  ten  min- 
utes of  my  time.  I  rose  and  placed  a  chair  for  her,  uncom- 
fortably certain  that  this  could  be  no  trivial  errand;  she 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  57 

seated  herself,  angularly  erect,  holding  her  feelings  well 
in  hand. 

"Mr.  Hunt,"  she  began,  "have  I  your  permission  to  dis- 
charge Sonia?" 

My  face  showed  my  surprise. 

' '  But  Susan  likes  her,  doesn  't  she,  Miss  Goucher  ?  And 
she  seems  efficient?" 

"Yes.  A  little  careless  perhaps;  but  then,  she's  young. 
It  isn't  her  service  I  object  to." 

"What  is  the  trouble?" 

"It  is  a  question  of  character,  Mr.  Hunt.  I  have  reason 
to  think  her  lacking  in — self-respect." 

"You  mean — immoral?"  I  asked,  using  the  word  in  the 
restricted  sense  which  I  assumed  Miss  Goucher,  like  most 
maiden  ladies,  exclusively  attached  to  it.  To  my  aston- 
ishment Miss  Goucher  insisted  upon  more  definition. 

"No,  I  shouldn't  say  that.  She  tells  a  good  many  little 
fibs,  but  she's  not  at  heart  dishonest.  And  I'm  by  no 
means  certain  she  can  be  held  responsible  for  her  weakness 
in  respect  to  men. ' '  A  slight  flush  just  tinged  Miss  Gouch- 
er's  prominent  cheek  bones;  but  duty  was  duty,  and  she 
persevered.  ' '  She  has  a  bad  inheritance,  I  think ;  and  un- 
til she  came  here,  Mr.  Hunt,  her  environment  was  always 
— unfortunate.  If  it  were  not  for  Susan,  I  shouldn  't  have 
spoken.  I  should  have  felt  it  my  duty  to  try  to  protect 

the  child  and However,"  added  Miss  Goucher,  "I 

doubt  whether  much  can  be  done  for  Sonia.  So  my  first 
duty  is  certainly  to  Miss  Susan,  and  to  you." 

Susan's  quiet  admiration  for  Miss  Goucher  had  more  or 
less  puzzled  me  hitherto,  but  now  my  own  opinion  of  Miss 
Goucher  soared  heavenward.  Why,  the  woman  was  re- 
markable— far  more  so  than  I  had  remotely  suspected! 
She  had  a  mind  above  her  station,  respectable  though  her 
station  might  well  be  held  to  be. 

"My  dear  Miss  Goucher,"  I  exclaimed,  "it  is  perfectly 
evident  to  me*  that  my  interests  are  more  than  safe  in 
your  keeping.  Do  what  you  think  best,  by  all  means!" 


58  THE  BOOK  OP  SUSAN 

"Unfortunately,  Mr.  Hunt,"  said  Miss  Goucher,  "that 
is  what  I  cannot  do.*" 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"Society  would  not  permit  me,"  answered  Miss  Goucher. 

"Please  explain,"  I  gasped. 

"Sonia  will  cause  a  great  deal  of  suffering  in  the  world," 
said  Miss  Goucher,  the  color  on  her  cheek  bones  deepen- 
ing, while  she  avoided  my  glance.  "For  herself — and 
others.  In  my  opinion — which  I  am  aware  is  not  widely 
shared — she  should  be  placed  in  a  lethal  chamber  and  pain- 
lessly removed.  "We  are  learning  to  'swat  the  fly,'  "  con- 
tinued Miss  Goucher,  "because  it  benefits  no  one  and 
spreads  many  human  ills.  Some  day  we  shall  learn  to 
swat — other  things."  Calmly  she  rose  to  take  her  leave. 
Excitedly  eager,  I  sprang  up  to  detain  her. 

"Don't  go,  Miss  Goucher!  Your  views  are  really  most 
interesting — though,  as  you  say,  not  widely  accepted. 
Certainly  not  by  me.  Your  plan  of  a  lethal  chamber  for 
weak  sisters  and  brothers  strikes  me  as — well,  drastic.  Do 
sit  down." 

Again  Miss  Goucher  perched  primly  upright  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  chair  beside  my  own.  "I  felt  bound 
to  state  my  views  truthfully,"  she  said,  "since  you  asked 
for  them.  But  I  never  intrude  them  upon  others.  I'm 
not  a  social  rebel,  Mr.  Hunt.  I  lack  self-confidence  for 
that.  When  I  differ  from  the  received  opinion  I  always 
suspect  that  I  am  quite  wrong.  Probably  I  am  in  this 
case.  But  I  think  society  would  agree  with  me  that  Sonia 
is  not  a  fit  maid  for  Susan." 

"Beyond  a  shadow  of  doubt,"  I  assented.  "But  may 
I  ask  on  what  grounds  you  suspect  Sonia?" 

"It  is  certainly  your  right,"  replied  Miss  Goucher;  "but 
if  you  insist  upon  an  answer  I  shall  have  to  give  notice." 

"Then  I  shall  certainly  not  insist." 

' '  Thank  you,  Mr.  Hunt, ' '  said  Miss  Goucher,  rising  once 
more.  "I  appreciate  this."  And  she  walked  from  the 
room. 

It  was  the  next  afternoon  that  Susan  burst  into  my 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  59 

study  without  knocking — a  breach  of  manners  which  she 
had  recently  learned  to  conquer,  so  the  irruption  surprised 
me.  But  I  noted  instantly  that  Susan's  agitation  had  car- 
ried her  far  beyond  all  thought  for  trifles.  Never  had 
I  seen  her  like  this.  Her  whole  being  was  vibrant  with 
emotional  stress. 

"Ambo!"  she  cried,  all  but  slamming  the  door  behind 
her.  "Sonia  mustn't  go!  I  won't  let  her  go!  You  and 
Miss  Goucher  may  think  what  you  please — I  won 't,  Ambo ! 
It's  wicked!  You  don't  want  Sonia  to  be  like  Tilly  Jaret- 
ski,  do  you?" 

"Like  Tilly  Jaretski?"  My  astonishment  was  so  great 
that  I  babbled  the  unfamiliar  name  merely  to  gain  time, 
collect  my  senses. 

"Yes!"  urged  Susan,  almost  leaping  to  my  side,  and 
seizing  my  arm  with  tense  fingers.  "She'll  be  just  like 
Tilly  was,  along  State  Street — after  her  baby  came.  Tilly 
wasn  't  a  bit  like  Pearl,  Ambo ;  and  Sonia  isn  't  either !  But 
she's  going  to  have  a  baby,  too,  Ambo,  like  Tilly." 

With  a  wrench  of  my  entire  nervous  system  I,  in  one 
agonizing  second,  completely  dislocated  the  prejudices  of 
a  lifetime,  and  rose  to  the  situation  confronting  me.  O 
Hillhouse  Avenue,  right  at  both  ends !  How  little  you  had 
prepared  me  for  this  precocious  knowledge  of  life — knowl- 
edge that  utterly  degrades  or  most  wonderfully  saves — 
which  these  children,  out  toward  the  wrong  end  of  the 
Birch  Streets  of  the  world,  drink  in  almost  with  their 
mothers'  milk!  How  far  I,  a  grown  man — a  cultured,  so- 
phisticated man — must  travel,  Susan,  even  to  begin  to 
equal  your  simple  acceptance  of  naked,  ugly  fact — sheer 
fact — seen,  smelt,  heard,  tasted !  How  far — how  far ! 

" Susan,"  I  said  gravely,  "does  Miss  Goucher  know 
about  Sonia  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  so.  I  haven't  seen  her  yet 
When  Sonia  came  to  me,  crying — I  ran  straight  in  here ! ' ' 

"And  how  long  have  you  known?" 

"  Over  a  week.  Sonia  told  me  all  about  it,  Ambo.  Count 
Dimbrovitski  got  her  in  trouble.  She  loved  him,  Ambo — 


60  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

her  way.  She  doesn't  any  more.  Sonia  can't  love  any- 
body long;  he  can't,  either.  That's  why  his  wife  sent 
Sonia  off.  Sonia  says  she  knows  her  husband's  like  that, 
but  so  long  as  she  can  hush  things  up,  she  doesn't  care. 
Sonia  says  she  has  a  lover  herself,  and  Count  Dim  doesn't 
care  much  either.  Oh,  Ambo — how  stuffy  some  people  are ! 
I  don't  mean  Sonia.  She's  just  pitiful — like  Tilly.  But 
those  others — they're  different — I  can  feel  it!  Oh,  how 
Artemis  must  hate  them,  Ambo!" 

Susan's  tense  fingers  relaxed,  slipping  from  my  arm; 
.she  slid  down  to  the  floor,  huddled,  and  leaning  against 
the  padded  side  of  my  chair  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Very  quietly  I  rose,  not  to  disturb  her,  and  crossing 
to  the  interphone  requested  Miss  Goucher's  presence.  My 
thoughts  raced  crazily  on.  In  advance  of  Miss  Goucher's 
coming  I  had  dramatized  my  interview  with  her  in  seven 
different  and  unsatisfactory  ways.  When  she  at  last  en- 
tered, my  temple  pulses  were  beating  and  my  tongue  was 
stiff  and  dry.  Susan,  except  for  her  shaken  shoulders, 
had  not  stirred. 

"Miss  Goucher,"  I  managed  to  begin,  "shut  the  door, 
please.  .  .  .  You  see  this  poor  child ?" 

Miss  Goucher  saw.  Over  her  harsh,  positive  features 
fell  a  sort  of  transforming  veil.  It  seemed  to  me  sud- 
denly— if  for  that  moment  only — that  Miss  Goucher  was 
very  beautiful. 

"If  you  wouldn't  mind,"  she  suggested,  "leaving  her 
with  me?" 

Well,  I  had  not  in  advance  dramatized  our  meeting  in 
this  way.  In  all  the  seven  scenes  that  had  flashed  through 
me,  I  had  stood,  an  unquestioned  star,  at  the  center  of  the 
stage.  I  had  not  foreseen  an  exit.  But  I  most  humbly  and 
gratefully  accepted  one  now. 

Precisely  what  took  place,  what  words  were  said  there, 
in  my  study,  following  my  humble  exit,  I  have  never 
learned,  either  from  Miss  Goucher  or  from  Susan.  I  know 
only  that  from  that  hour  forth  the  bond  between  them 
became  what  sentimentalists  fondly  suppose  the  relation- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  61 

ship  between  mother  and  daughter  must  always  be — what, 
alas,  it  so  rarely,  but  then  so  beautifully,  is. 

I  date  from  that  hour  Miss  Goueher's  abandonment  of 
her  .predilection  for  the  lethal  chamber ;  at  least,  she  never 
spoke  of  it  again.  And  Sonia  stayed  with  us.  Her  boy 
was  born  in  my  house,  and  there  for  three  happy  years 
was  nourished  and  shamelessly  spoiled ;  at  the  end  of  which 
lime  Sonia  found  a  husband  in  the  person  of  young  Jack 
Palumbo,  unquestionably  the  pick  of  all  our  Hillhouse 
Avenue  chauffeurs.  Their  marriage  caused  a  brief  scandal 
in  the  neighborhood,  but  was  soon  accepted  as  an  authen- 
tic and  successful  fact. 

Chance  and  change  are  not  always  villains,  you  ob- 
serve; the  temperamental  Sonia  has  grown  stout  and 
placid,  and  has  increased  the  world's  legitimate  population 
by  three.  Nevertheless,  it  is  the  consensus  of  opinion  that 
little  Ivan,  her  first-born,  is  the  golden  arrow  in  her  quiver 
— an  opinion  in  which  Jack  Palumbo  delightedly,  if  rather 
surprisingly,  concurs. 

And  so  much  for  Sonia.  .  .  .  Let  the  curtain  quietly  de- 
scend. When  it  rises  again,  six  years  will  have  passed; 
good  years — and  therefore  unrecorded.  Your  scribe, 

Susan,  is  now  nearing  forty ;  and  you Great  heavens, 

is  it  possible!  Can  you  be  "going  on" — twenty? 

Yes,  dear You  are. 


THE  THIRD  CHAPTER 


IT  was  October;  the  year,  1913.  Susan,  Miss  Goucher 
and  I  had  just  returned  from  Liverpool  on  the  good 
ship  "Lusitania" — there  was  a  good  ship  "Lusitania" 
in  those  days — after  a  delightful  summer  spent  in  Italy 
and  France.  Susan  and  I  entirely  agree  that  the  season 
for  Italy  is  midsummer.  Italy  is  not  Italy  until  she  has 
drunk  deep  of  the  sun ;  until  a  haze  of  whitest  dust  floats 
up  from  the  slow  hoofs  of  her  white  oxen  along  Umbrian 
or  Tuscan  roads.  You  will  never  get  from  her  churches 
all  they  can  give  unless  they  have  been  to  you  as  shadows 
of  great  rocks  in  a  weary  land.  To  step  from  reverberat- 
ing glare  to  vast  cool  dimness — ah,  that  is  to  know  at 
last  the  meaning  of  sanctuary ! 

But  to  step  from  a  North  River  pier  into  a  cynical 
taxi,  solely  energized  by  our  great  American  principle 
of  ''Take  a  chance!" — to  be  bumped  and  slithered  by  that 
energizing  principle  across  the  main  traffic  streams  of  im- 
patient New  York — that  is  to  reawaken  to  all  the  doubt 
and  distraction,  the  implacable  multiplicity  of  a  scientifi- 
cally disordered  world! 

New  Haven  was  better ;  Hillhouse  Avenue  preserving  es- 
pecially— through  valorous  prodigies  of  rejection — much 
of  its  ancient,  slightly  disdainful,  studiously  inconspicu- 
ous calm. 

Phil  Farmer  was  waiting  for  us  at  the  doorstep.  For 
all  his  inclusive  greeting,  his  warm,  welcoming  smile,  he 
looked  older,  did  Phil,  leaner  somehow,  more  finely  drawn. 
There  was  a  something  hungry  about  him — something  in 
his  eyes.  But  if  Susan,  who  notices  most  things,  noted  it, 

62 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  63 

she  did  not  speak  of  her  impression  to  me.  She  almost 
hugged  Phil  as  she  jumped  out  to  greet  him  and  dragged 
him  with  her  up  the  steps  to  the  door. 

And  now,  if  this  portion  of  Susan's  history  is  to  be 
truthfully  recorded,  certain  facts  may  as  well  be  set  down 
at  once,  clearly,  in  due  order,  without  shame. 

1.  Phil  Farmer  was,  by  this  time,  hopelessly  in  love  with 
Susan. 

2.  So  was  Maltby  Phar. 

3.  So  was  I. 

It  should  now  be  possible  for  a  modest  but  intelligent 
reader  to  follow  the  approaching  pages  without  undue 
fatigue. 


Susan  never  kept  a  diary,  she  tells  me,  but  she  had,  like 
most  beginning  authors,  the  habit  of  scribbling  things 
down,  which  she  never  intended  to  keep,  and  then  could 
seldom  bring  herself  to  destroy.  To  a  writer  all  that  his 
pen  leaves  behind  it  seems  sacred;  it  is,  I  treacherously 
submit,  a  private  grief  to  any  of  us  to  blot  a  line.  Such 
is  our  vanity.  However  inept  the  work  which  we  force 
ourselves  or  are  prevailed  upon  to  destroy,  the  unhappy 
doubt  always  lingers:  "If  I  had  only  saved  it?  One  can't 
be  sure?  Perhaps  posterity ?" 

Susan,  thank  God,  was  not  and  probably  is  not  exempt 
from  this  folly.  It  enables  me  from  this  time  forward  to 
present  certain  passages — mere  scraps  and  jottings — from 
her  notebooks,  which  she  has  not  hesitated  to  turn  over 
to  me. 

"I  don't  approve,  Ambo,"  was  her  comment,  "but  if  you 
will  write  nonsense  about  me,  I  can't  help  it.  What  I 
can  help,  a  little,  is  your  writing  nonsense  about  yourself 
or  Phil  or  the  rest.  It's  only  fair  to  let  me  get  a  word  in 
edgeways,  now  and  then — if  only  for  your  sake  and 
theirs." 

That  is  not,  however,  my  own  reason  for  giving  you 
occasional  peeps  into  these  notebooks  of  Susan's. 


64 

"I'm  beginning  to  wish  that  Shelley  might  have  had  a 
sense  of  humor.  'Epipsychidion'  is  really  too  absurd. 
'Sweet  benediction  in  the  eternal  curse!'  Imagine,  un- 
der any  condition  of  sanity,  calling  any  woman  that !  Or 
'Thou  star  above  the  storm!' — beautiful  as  the  image  is. 
'Thou  storm  upon  the  star!'  would  make  much  worse 
poetry,  but  much  better  sense.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  strange  that 
I  can't  feel  this  about  Wordsworth?  He  was  better  off 
without  humor,  for  all  his  solemn-donkey  spots — and  it's 
better  for  us  that  he  didn_'t  have  it.  It's  probably  better 
for  us,  too,  that  Shelley  didn't  have  it — but  it  wasn't  bet- 
ter for  him.  Diddle-diddle-dumpling — what  stuff  all  this 
is!  Go  to  bed,  Susan." 

"There's  no  use  pretending  things  are  different,  Susan 
Blake ;  you  might  as  well  face  them  and  see  them  through, 
open-eyed.  What  does  being  in  love  mean  ? 

"I  suppose  if  one  is  really  in  love,  head  over  heels,  one 
doesn't  care  what  it  means.  But  I  don't  like  pouncing, 
overwhelming  things — things  that  crush  and  blast  and 
scorch  and  blind.  I  don't  like  cyclones  and  earthquakes 
and  conflagrations — at  least,  I've  never  experienced  any, 
but  I  know  I  shouldn't  like  them  if  I  did.  But  I  don't 
think  I'd  be  so  terribly  afraid  of  them — though  I  might. 
I  think  I'd  be  more — sort  of — indignant — disgusted." 

Editor's  Note:  Such  English!  But  pungent  stylist  as 
Susan  is  now  acknowledged  to  be,  she  is  still,  in  the  opinion 
of  academic  critics,  not  sufficiently  attentive  to  formal 
niceties  of  diction.  She  remains  too  wayward,  too  impres- 
sionistic ;  in  a  word,  too  personal.  I  am  inclined  to  agree, 
and  yet — am  I  ? 

"It's  all  very  well  to  stamp  round  declaiming  that 
you're  captain  of  your  soul,  but  if  an  earthquake — even  a 
tiny  one — comes  and  shakes  your  house  like  a  dice  box 
and  then  scatters  you  and  the  family  out  of  it  like  dice — 
it  wouldn't  sound  very  appropriate  for  your  epitaph.  'I 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  65 

am  the  master  of  my  fate'  would  always  look  silly  on  a 
tombstone.  Why  aren't  tombstones  a  good  test  for  poetry 
— some  poetry?  I've  never  seen  anything  on  a  tombstone 
that  looked  real — not  even  the  names  and  dates. 

"But  does  love  have  to  be  like  an  earthquake?  If  it 
does,  then  it's  just  a  blind  force,  and  I  don't  like  blind 
forces.  It's  stupid  to  be  blind  oneself;  but  it's  worse  to 
have  blind  stupid  things  butting  into  one  and  pushing  one 
about. 

"Hang  it,  I  don't  believe  love  has  to  be  stupid  and 
blind,  and  go  thrashing  through  things!  Ambo  isn't 
thrashing  through  things — or  Phil  either.  But,  of  course, 
they  wouldn't.  That's  exactly  what  I  mean  about  love; 
it  can  be  tamed,  civilized.  No,  not  civilized — just  tamed. 
Cowed?  Then  it's  still  as  wild  as  ever  underneath?  I'm 
afraid  it  is.  Oh,  dear! 

"Phil  and  Ambo  really  are  captains  of  their  souls 
though,  so  far  as  things  in  general  let  them  be.  Things 
in  general — what  a  funny  name  for  God!  But  isn't  God 
just  a  short  solemn  name  for  things  in  general?  There 
I  go  again.  Phil  says  I'm  always  taking  God's  name  in 
vain.  He  thinks  I  lack  reverence.  I  don't,  really.  What 
I  lack  is — reticence.  That's  different — isn't  it,  Ambo?" 

The  above  extracts  date  back  a  little.  The  following 
•were  jotted  early  in  November,  1913,  not  long  after  our 
return  from  overseas. 

"This  is  growing  serious,  Susan  Blake.  Phil  has  asked 
you  to  marry  him,  and  says  he  needs  you.  Ditto  Maltby ; 
only  he  says  he  wants  you.  Which,  too  obviously,  he  does. 
Poor  Maltby — imagine  his  trying  to  stoop  so  low  as  matri- 
mony, even  to  conquer!  As  for  Ambo — Ambo  says  noth- 
ing, bless  him — but  I  think  he  wants  and  needs  you  most 
of  all.  Well,  Susan?" 

"Jimmy's  back.  I  saw  him  yesterday.  He  didn't  know 
me.'" 


66  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

' '  Sex  is  a  miserable  nuisance.  It  muddles  things — inter- 
feres with  honest  human  values.  It's  just  Nature  making 
fools  of  us  for  her  own  private  ends.  These  are  not  pretty 
sentiments  for  a  young  girl,  Susan  Blake ! ' ' 

"Speak  up,  Susan — clear  the  air!  You  are  living  here 
under  false  pretenses.  If  you  can't  manage  to  feel  like 
Ambo's  daughter — you  oughtn't  to  stay." 

ra 

It  was  perhaps  when  reticent  Phil  finally  spoke  to  me 
of  his  love  for  Susan  that  I  first  fully  realized  my  own 
predicament — a  most  unpleasant  discovery;  one  which  I 
determined  should  never  interfere  with  Susan's  peace  of 
mind  or  with  the  possible  chances  of  other,  more  eligible, 
men.  As  Susan 's  guardian,  I  could  not  for  a  moment  coun- 
tenance her  receiving  more  than  friendly  attention  from 
a  man  already  married,  and  no  longer  young.  A  grim, 
confused  hour  in  my  study  convinced  me  that  I  was  an 
impossible,  even  an  absurd,  parti.  This  conviction  brought 
with  it  pain  so  sharp,  so  nearly  unendurable,  that  I  won- 
dered in  my  weakness  how  it  was  to  be  unflinchingly  borne. 
Yet  borne  it  must  be,  and  without  betrayal.  It  did  not 
occur  to  me,  in  my  mature  folly,  that  I  was  already, 
and  had  for  long  been,  self-betrayed. 

"Steady,  you  old  fool!"  whispered  my  familiar  demon. 
"This  isn't  going  to  be  child's  play,  you  know.  This  is 
an  hour-by-hour  torture  you've  set  out  to  grin  and  bear 
and  live  through.  You'll  never  make  the  grade,  if  you 
don't  take  cognizance  in  advance.  The  road's  devilishly 
steep  and  icy,  and  the  corners  are  bad.  "What's  more, 
there's  no  end  to  it;  the  crest's  never  in  sight.  Clamp 
your  chains  on  and  get  into  low.  .  .  .  Steadj^ ! 

"But,  of  course,"  whispered  my  familiar  demon, 
"there's  probably  an  easier  way  round.  Why  attempt  the 
impossible?  Think  what  you've  done  for  Susan!  Grati- 
tude, my  dear  sir — affectionate  gratitude — is  a  long  step 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  67 

in  the  right  direction  ...  if  it  is  the  right  direction.  I 
don't  say  it  is;  I  merely  suggest,  en  passant,  that  it  may 
be.  Suppose,  for  example,  that  Susan " 

"Damn  you!"  I  spat  out,  jumping  from  my  chair. 
""You  contemptible  swine!" 

Congested  blood  whined  in  my  ears  like  a  faint  jeering 
laughter.  I  paced  the  room,  raging — only  to  sink  down 
again,  exhausted,  my  face  and  hands  clammy. 

"What  a  hideous  exhibition,"  I  said,  distinctly  address- 
ing a  grotesque  porcelain  Buddha  on  the  mantelpiece. 
Contrary,  I  believe,  to  my  expectations,  he  did  not  reply. 
My  familiar  demon  forestalled  him. 

"If  by  taking  a  merely  conventional  attitude,"  he  mur- 
mured, "you  defeat  the  natural  flowering  of  two  lives ? 

Who  are  you  to  decide  that  the  voice  of  Nature  is  not  also 
the  voice  of  God  ?  Supposing,  for  the  moment,  that  God  is 
other  than  a  poetic  expression.  If  her  eyes  didn't  haunt 
you,"  continued  my  familiar  demon,  "or  a  certain  way 
she  has  of  turning  her  head,  like  a  poised  poppy.  ..." 

As  he  droned  on  within  me,  the  mantelpiece  blurred  and 
thinned  to  the  blue  haze  of  a  distant  Tuscan  hill,  and  the 
little  porcelain  Buddha  sat  upon  this  hill,  very  far  off  now 
and  changed  oddly  to  the  semblance  of  a  tiny  huddled 
town.  We  were  climbing  along  a  white  road  toward  that 
far  hill,  that  tiny  town. 

"Ambo,"  she  was  saying,  "that  isn't  East  Eock — it's 
Monte  Senario.  And  this  isn't  Birch  Street — it's  the 
Faenzan  Way.  How  do  you  do  it,  Ambo — you  wonderful 
magician !  Just  with  a  wave  of  your  wand  you  change  the 
world  for  me;  you  give  me — all  this!" 

A  bee  droned  at  my  ear:  "Gratitude,  my  dear  sir. 
Affectionate  gratitude.  A  long  step." 

"Damn  you!"  I  whimpered.  .  .  .  But  the  grotesque  por- 
celain Buddha  was  there  again,  on  the  mantelshelf.  The 
creases  in  his  little  fat  belly  disgusted  me ;  they  were  loath- 
some. I  rose.  "At  least,"  I  said  to  him,  "I  can  live 
without  you!"  Then  I  seized  him  and  shattered  him 
against  the  fireplace  tiles.  It  was  an  enormous  relief. 


68  THE  BOOK  OP  SUSAN 

Followed  a  knock  at  my  door  that  I  answered  calmly: 
"Who  is  it?  Come  in." 

Miss  Goucher  never  came  to  me  without  a  mission;  she 
had  one  now. 

"Mr.  Hunt,"  she  said,  "I  should  like  to  talk  to  you 
very  plainly.  May  I?  It's  about  Susan."  I  nodded. 
"Mr.  Hunt,"  she  continued  resolutely,  "Susan  is  in  a 
very  difficult  position  here.  I  don't  say  that  she  isn't 
entirely  equal  to  meeting  it ;  but  I  dread  the  nervous  strain 
for  her — if  you  understand  ? ' ' 

"Not  entirely,  Miss  Goucher;  perhaps,  not  at  all." 

"I  was  afraid  of  this,"  she  responded  unhappily.  "But 
I  must  go  on — for  her  sake." 

Knowing  well  that  Miss  Goucher  would  face  death  smil- 
ing for  Susan's  sake,  her  repressed  agitation  alarmed  me. 
"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed.  "Is  there  anything  really 
wrong  ? ' ' 

"A  good  deal."  She  paused,  her  lips  whitening  as  she 
knit  them  together,  lest  any  ill-considered  word  should 
slip  from  her.  Miss  Goucher  never  loosed  her  arrows  at 
random;  she  always  tried  for  the  bull's-eye,  and  usually 
with  success. 

"I  am  speaking  in  strict  confidence — to  Susan's  protec- 
tor and  legal  guardian.  Please  try  to  fill  in  what  I  leave 
unsaid.  It  is  very  unfortunate  for  Susan's  peace  of  mind 
that  you  should  happen  to  be  a  married  man." 

"For  her  peace  of  mind !" 

"Yes." 

""Wait!  I  daren't  trust  myself  to  fill  in  what  you  leave 

unsaid.  It's  too — preposterous.  Do  you  mean But 

you  can't  mean  that  you  imagine  Susan  to  be  in  love  with 
— her  grandfather?"  My  heart  pounded,  suffocating  me; 
with  fright,  I  think. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Goucher,  coldly;  "Susan  is  not  in 
love  with  her  grandfather.  She  is  with  you. ' ' 

I  could  manage  no  response  but  an  angry  one.  "That's 
a  dangerous  statement,  Miss  Goucher!  Whether  true  or 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  69 

not — it  ruins  everything.  You  have  made  our  life  here 
together  impossible." 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  Miss  Goucher.  "It  became  so 
last  summer.  I  knew  then  it  could  not  go  on  much  longer. ' ' 

"But  I  question  this!  I  deny  that  Susan  feels  for  me 
more  than — gratitude  and  affection." 

"Gratitude  is  rare,"  said  Miss  Goucher  enigmatically, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fragments  of  Buddha  littering 
my  hearth.  "True  gratitude,"  she  added,  "is  a  strong 
emotion.  When  it  passes  between  a  man  and  a  woman, 
it  is  like  flame." 

"Very  interesting!"  I  snapped.  "But  hardly  enough 
to  have  brought  you  here  to  me  with  this ! ' ' 

"She  feels  that  you  need  her,"  said  Miss  Goucher. 

"I  do,"  was  my  reply. 

"Susan  doesn't  need  you,"  said  Miss  Goucher.  "I 
don't  wish  to  be  brutal;  but  she  doesn't.  In  spite  of  this, 
she  can  easily  stand  alone." 

' '  I  see.    And  you  think  that  would  be  best  ? ' ' 

"Naturally.    Don't  you?" 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure. ' ' 

As  I  muttered  this  my  eyes,  too,  fixed  themselves  on  the 
fragments  of  Buddha.  Would  the  woman  never  go!  I 
hated  her;  it  seemed  to  me  now  that  I  had  always  hated 
her.  What  was  she  after  all  but  a  superior  kind  of  servant 
— presuming  in  this  way !  The  irritation  of  these  thoughts 
swung  me  suddenly  round  to  wound  her,  if  I  might,  with 
sarcasm,  with  implied  contempt.  But  it  is  impossible  to 
wound  the  air.  With  her  customary  economy  of  explana- 
tion Miss  Goucher  had,  pitilessly,  left  me  to  myself. 

IV 

The  evening  of  this  already  comfortless  day  I  now  re- 
call as  one  of  the  most  exasperating  of  my  life.  Maltby 
Phar  arrived  for  dinner  and  the  week-end — an  exaspera- 
tion foreseen;  Phil  came  in  after  dinner — another;  but 
what  I  did  not  foresee  was  that  Lucette  Arthur  would 


70  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

bring  her  malicious  self  and  her  unspeakably  tedious  hus- 
band for  a  formal  call.  Lucette  was  an  old  friend  of 
Gertrude,  and  I  always  suspected  that  her  occasional 
evening  visits  were  followed  by  a  detailed  report ;  in  fact, 
I  rather  encouraged  them,  and  returned  them  promptly, 
hoping  that  they  were.  In  my  harmless  way  of  life  even 
Lucette 's  talent  for  snooping  could  find,  I  felt,  little  to 
feed  upon,  and  it  did  not  wholly  displease  me  that  Ger- 
trude should  be  now  and  then  forced  to  recognize  this. 

The  coming  of  Susan  had,  not  unnaturally,  for  a  time, 
provided  Lucette  with  a  wealth  of  interesting  conjecture; 
•she  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  intimate  that  Gertrude 
felt  I  was  making — the  expression  is  entirely  mine — an  ass 
of  myself,  which  neither  surprised  nor  disturbed  me,  since 
Gertrude  had  always  had  a  tendency  to  feel  that  my  tal- 
ents lay  in  that  direction.  But,  on  the  whole,  up  to  this 
time — barring  the  Sonia  incident,  which  had  afforded  her  a 
good  deal  of  scope,  but  which,  after  all,  could  not  be 
safely  misinterpreted — Lucette  had  found  at  my  house 
pretty  thin  pickings  for  scandal ;  and  I  could  only  wonder 
at  the  unwearying  patience  with  which  she  pursued  her 
quest. 

She  arrived  with  poor  Doctor  Arthur  in  tow — Dr.  Ly- 
man  Arthur,  who  professed  Primitive  Eschatology  in  the 
School  of  Religion:  eschatology  being  "that  branch  of  the- 
ology which  treats  of  the  end  of  the  world  and  man's 
condition  or  state  after  death" — just  upon  the  heels  of 
Phil,  who  shot  me  a  despairing  glance  as  we  rose  to  greet 
them. 

But  Susan,  I  thought,  welcomed  them  with  undisguised 
relief.  She  had  been  surpassing  herself  before  the  fire, 
chatting  blithely,  wittily,  even  a  little  recklessly ;  but  there 
are  gayer  evenings  conceivable  than  one  spent  in  the  pres- 
ence of  three  doleful  men,  two  of  whom  have  proposed 
marriage  to  you,  and  one  of  whom  would  have  done  so  if 
he  were  not  married  already.  Almost  anything,  even 
open  espionage  and  covert  eschatology,  was  better  than 
that 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  71 

Lucette — the  name  suggests  Parisian  vivacity,  but  she 
was  really  large  and  physically  languid  and  very  blonde, 
scented  at  once,  I  felt,  a  something  faintly  brimstoneish 
in  the  atmosphere  of  my  model  home,  and  forthwith  pre- 
pared herself  for  a  protracted  and  pleasant  evening.  It 
so  happened  that  the  Arthurs  had  never  met  Maltby,  and 
Susan  carried  through  the  ceremony  of  introduction  with 
a  fine  swinging  rhythm  which  settled  us  as  one  group  be- 
fore the  fire  and  for  some  moments  at  least  kept  the  conver- 
sation animated  and  general. 

But  Eschatology,  brooding  in  the  background,  soon  put 
an  end  to  this  somewhat  hectic  social  burst.  The  mere 
unnoted  presence  of  Dr.  Lyman  Arthur,  peering  near- 
sightedly in  at  the  doorway  on  a  children's  party,  has 
been  known,  I  am  told,  to  slay  youngling  joy  and  turn 
little  tots  self-conscious,  so  that  they  could  no  longer  be 
induced  by  agonized  mothers  to  go  to  Jerusalem,  or  clap- 
in  clap-out.  His  presence  now,  gradually  but  surely,  had 
much  the  same  effect.  Seated  at  Maltby's  elbow,  he  passed 
into  the  silence  and  drew  us,  struggling  but  helpless,  after 
him.  For  five  horrible  seconds  nothing  was  heard  but  the 
impolite,  ironic  whispering  of  little  flames  on  the  hearth. 
Was  this  man's  condition  or  state  after  death?  Escha- 
tology had  conquered. 

Susan,  in  duty  bound  as  hostess,  broke  the  spell,  but 
it  cannot  be  said  she  rose  to  the  occasion.  "Is  it  a  party 
in  a  parlor,"  she  murmured  wistfully  to  the  flames,  "all 
silent  and  all — damned?" 

Perceiving  that  Lucette  supposed  this  to  be  original 
sin,  I  laughed  much  more  loudly  than  cheerfully,  exclaim- 
ing "Good  old  Wordsworth!"  as  I  did  so. 

Then  Maltby's  evil  genius  laid  hold  on  him. 

"By  the  way,"  he  snorted,  "they  tell  me  one  of  you 
academic  ghouls  has  discovered  that  Wordsworth  had  an 
illegitimate  daughter — whatever  that  means!  Any  truth 
in  it?  I  hope  so.  It's  the  humanest  thing  I  ever  heard 
about  the  old  sheep ! ' ' 

Doctor  Arthur  cleared  his  throat,  very  cautiously;  and 


72  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

it  was  evident  that  Maltby  had  not  helped  us  much.  Phil, 
in  another  vein,  helped  us  little  more. 

"I  wonder,"  he  asked,  "if  anyone  reads  Wordsworth 
now — except  Susan?" 

No  one,  not  even  Susan,  seemed  interested  in  this  ques- 
tion; and  the  little  flames  chuckled  quietly  once  more. 

Something  had  to  be  done. 

"Doctor,"  I  began,  turning  toward  Eschatology,  and 
knowing  no  more  than  my  Kazak  hearthrug  what  I  was 
going  to  say,  "is  it  true  that ' 

"Undoubtedly,"  intoned  Eschatology,  thereby  saving 
me  from  the  pit  I  was  digging  for  myself.  My  incom- 
plete question  must  have  chimed  with  Doctor  Arthur 's  pri- 
vate reflections,  and  he  seemed  to  suppose  some  controver- 
sial matter  under  discussion.  "Undoubtedly,"  he  re- 
peated. . . .  "And  what  is  even  more  important  is  this " 

But  Lucette  silenced  him  with  a  "Why  is  it,  dear,  that 
you  always  let  your  cigar  burn  down  at  one  side  ?  It  does 
look  so  untidy."  And  she  leaned  to  me.  "What  delight- 
fully daring  discussions  you  must  all  of  you  have  here  to- 
gether! You're  all  so  terribly  intellectual,  aren't  you? 
But  do  you  never  talk  of  anything  but  books  and  art  and 
ideas?  I'm  sure  you  must,"  she  added,  fixing  me  with 
impenetrable  blue  eyes. 

"Often,"  I  smiled  back;  "even  the  weather  has  charms 
for  us.  Even  food. ' ' 

Her  inquisitive  upper  lip  curled  and  dismissed  me. 

"Why  is  it,"  she  demanded,  turning  suddenly  on  Susan, 
"that  I  don't  see  you  round  more  with  the  college  boys? 
They're  much  more  suitable  to  your  age,  you  know,  than 
Ambrose  or  Phil.  I  hope  you  don't  frighten  them  off,  my 
dear,  by  mentioning  Wordsworth  ?  Boys  dislike  bluestock- 
ings ;  and  you  're  much  too  charming  to  wear  them  anyway. 
Oh,  but  you  really  are!  I  must  take  charge  of  you — get 
you  out  more  where  you  belong,  away  from  these  dreadful 
old  fogies!"  Lucette  laughed  her  languid,  purring,  dan- 
gerous laughter.  "I'm  serious,  Miss  Blake.  You  musn't 
let  them  monopolize  you;  they  will  if  you're  not  careful. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  73 

They're  just  selfish  enough  to  want  to  keep  you  to  them- 
selves." 

The  tone  was  badinage;  but  the  remark  struck  home 
and  left  us  speechless.  Lucette  shifted  the  tiller  slightly 
and  filled  her  sails.  "Next  thing  you  know,  Miss  Blake, 
they'll  be  asking  you  to  marry  them.  Individually,  of 
course — not  collectively.  And,  of  course — not  Ambrose! 
At  least  you're  safe  there,"  she  hastily  added;  "aren't 
you?" 

Maltby,  I  saw,  was  furious ;  bent  on  brutalities.  Before 
I  could  check  him,  "Why?"  he  growled.  "Why,  Mrs. 
Arthur,  do  you  assume  that  Susan  is  safe  with  Boz?" 

"Well,"  she  responded  with  a  slow  shrug  of  her 
shoulders,  "naturally " 

"Unnaturally!"  snapped  Maltby.  "Unless  forbidden 
fruit  has  ceased  to  appeal  to  your  sex.  I  was  not  aware 
that  it  had." 

Phil's  eyes  were  signalling  honest  distress.  Susan  unex- 
pectedly rose  from  her  chair.  Deep  spots  of  color  burned 
on  her  cheeks,  but  she  spoke  with  dignity.  "I  have  never 
disliked  any  conversation  so  much,  Mrs.  Arthur.  Good 
night."  She  walked  from  the  room.  Phil  jumped  up 
without  a  word  and  hurried  after  her.  Then  we  all  rose. 

It  seemed,  however,  that  apologies  were  useless.  Doc- 
tor Arthur  had  no  need  for  them,  since  he  had  not  per- 
ceived a  slight,  and  was  only  too  happy  to  find  himself 
released  from  bondage ;  as  for  Lucette,  her  assumed  frigid- 
ity could  not  conceal  her  flaming  triumph.  As  a  social 
being,  for  the  sake  of  the  mores,  she  must  resent  Susan's 
snub ;  but  I  saw  that  she  would  not  have  had  things  happen 
otherwise  for  a  string  of  matched  pearls.  At  last,  at  last 
her  patience  had  been  rewarded!  I  could  almost  have 
written  for  her  the  report  to  Gertrude — with  nothing  ex- 
plicitly stated,  and  nothing  overlooked. 

Maltby,  after  their  departure,  continued  truculent,  and 
haring  no  one  else  to  rough-house  decided  to  rough-house 
me.  The  lengthening  absence  of  Susan  and  Phil  had  much 
to  do  with  his  irritation,  and  something  no  doubt  with 


74  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

mine.  For  men  of  mature  years  we  presently  developed 
a  very  pretty  little  gutter-snipe  quarrel. 

"Damn  it,  Boz,"  he  summed  his  grievances,  "it  comes 
precisely  to  this:  You're  playing  dog  in  the  manger 
here.  By  your  attitude,  by  every  kind  of  sneaking  sug- 
gestion, you  poison  Susan 's  mind  against  me.  Hang  it,  I  'm 
not  vain — but  at  least  I  'm  presentable,  and  I  've  been  called 
amusing.  Other  women  have  found  me  so.  And  to  speak 
quite  frankly,  it  isn't  every  man  in  my  position  who  would 
offer  marriage  to  a  girl  whose  father " 

"I'd  stop  there,  Maltby,  if  I  were  you!" 

"My  dear  man,  you  and  I  are  above  such  prejudices, 
of  course!  But  it's  only  common  sense  to  acknowledge 
that  they  exist.  Susan's  the  most  infernally  seductive 
accident  that  ever  happened  on  this  middle-class  planet! 
But  all  the  same,  there's  a  family  history  back  of  her  that 
not  one  man  in  fifty  would  be  able  to  forget.  My  point 
is,  that  with  all  her  seduction,  physical  and  mental,  she's 
not  in  the  ordinary  sense  marriageable.  And  it's  the 
ordinary  sense  of  such  things  that  runs  the  world. ' ' 

"Well " 

"Well — there  you  are!  I  offer  her  far  more  than  she 
could  reasonably  hope  for ;  or  you  for  her.  I  'm  well  fixed, 
I  know  everybody  worth  knowing ;  I  can  give  her  a  good 
time,  and  I  can  help  her  to  a  career.  It  strikes  me  that  if 
you  had  Susan's  good  at  heart,  you'd  occasionally  suggest 
these  things  to  her — even  urge  them  upon  her.  As  her 
guardian  you  must  have  some  slight  feeling  of  responsi- 
bility?" 

"None  whatever." 

"What!" 

"None  whatever — so  far  as  Susan's  deeper  personal  life 
is  concerned.  That  is  her  affair,  not  mine." 

"Then  you'd  be  satisfied  to  have  her  throw  herself 
away?" 

"If  she  insisted,  yes.  But  Susan's  not  likely  to  throw 
herself  away. ' ' 

"Oh,  isn't  she!    Let  me  tell  you  this,  Boz,  once  for  all: 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  75 

You're  in  love  with  the  girl  yourself,  and  though  you  may 
not  know  it,  you've  no  intention  of  letting  anyone  else 
have  a  chance." 

"Well,"  I  flashed,  "if  you  were  in  my  shoes — would 
you?" 

The  vulgarity  of  our  give  and  take  did  not  escape  me, 
but  in  my  then  state  of  rage  I  seemed  powerless  to  escape 
vulgarity.  I  revelled  in  vulgarity.  It  refreshed  me.  I 
could  have  throttled  Maltby,  and  I  am  quite  certain  he  was 
itching  to  throttle  me.  We  were  both  longing  to  throttle 
Phil.  Indeed,  we  almost  leaped  at  him  as  he  stopped  in 
the  hall  doorway  to  toss  us  an  unnaturally  gruff  good 
night. 

"Where's  Susan?"  I  demanded. 

' '  In  your  study, ' '  Phil  mumbled,  hunching  into  his  over- 
coat; "she's  waiting  to  see  you."  Then  he  seized  his 
shapeless  soft  hat  and — the  good  old  phrase  best  describes 
it — made  off. 

"She's  got  to  see  me  first!"  Maltby  hurled  at  me, 
coarsely,  savagely,  as  he  started  past. 

I  grabbed  his  arm  and  held  him.  It  thrilled  me  to  real- 
ize how  soft  he  was  for  all  his  bulk,  to  feel  that  physically 
I  was  the  stronger. 

"Wait!"  I  said.  "This  sort  of  thing  has  gone  far 
enough.  We'll  stop  grovelling — if  you  don't  mind!  If 
we  can't  give  Susan  something  better  than  this,  we've 
been  cheating  her.  It 's  a  pity  she  ever  left  Birch  Street. ' ' 

Maltby  stared  at  me  with  slowly  stirring  comprehension, 

' '  Yes, "  he  at  length  muttered,  grudgingly  enough ;  ' '  per- 
haps you're  right.  It's  been  an  absurd  spectacle  all  round. 
But  then,  life  is." 

"Wait  for  me  here,"  I  responded.  "We'll  stop  butting 
at  each  other  like  stags,  and  try  to  talk  things  over  like 
men.  I'm  just  going  to  send  Susan  to  bed." 

That  was  my  intention.  I  went  to  her  in  the  study  as  a 
big  brother  might  go,  meaning  good  counsel.  It  was  cer- 
tainly not  my  intention  to  let  her  run  into  my  arms  and 
press  her  face  to  my  shoulder.  She  clung  to  me  with  pas- 


76  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

sion,  bnt  without  joy,  and  her  voice  came  through  the 
tumult  of  my  senses  as  if  from  a  long  way  off. 

"Ambo,  Ambo!  You've  asked  nothing — and  you  want 
me  most  of  all.  I  must  make  somebody  happy ! " 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  child. 


I  could  not  face  Maltby  again  that  evening,  as  I  had 
promised,  for  our  good  sensible  man-to-man  talk;  a  lapse 
in  courage  which  reduced  him  to  rabid  speculation  and 
restless  fury.  So  furious  was  he,  indeed,  after  a  long  hour 
alone,  that  he  telephoned  for  a  taxi,  grabbed  his  suitcase, 
and  caught  a  slow  midnight  local  for  New  York — from 
which  electric  center  he  hissed  back  over  the  wires  three 
ominous  words  to  ruin  my  solitary  breakfast: 

' '  He  laughs  best M.  PHAR.  ' ' 

,While  my  egg  solidified  and  the  toast  grew  rigid  I  medi- 
tated a  humble  apologetic  reply,  but  in  the  end  I  could 
not  with  honesty  compose  one ;  though  I  granted  him  just 
cause  for  anger.  With  that,  for  the  time  being,  I  dis- 
missed him.  There  were  more  immediate  problems,  threat- 
ening, inescapable,  that  must  presently  be  solved. 

Susan,  always  an  early  riser,  usually  had  a  bite  of  break- 
fast at  seven  o'clock — brought  to  her  by  the  faithful  Miss 
Goucher — and  then  remained  in  her  room  to  work  until 
lunch  time.  For  about  a  year  past  I  had  so  far  caught  the 
contagion  of  her  example  as  to  write  in  my  study  three 
hours  every  morning;  a  regularity  I  should  formerly  have 
despised.  Dilettantism  always  demands  a  fine  frenzy,  but 
now  it  astounded  me  to  discover  how  much  respectable 
writing  one  could  do  without  waiting  for  the  spark  from 
heaven ;  one  could  pass  beyond  the  range  of  an  occasional 
article  and  even  aspire  to  a  book.  Only  the  final  pages 
of  my  first  real  book — Aristocracy  and  Art,  an  essay  in 
a&sthetic  and  social  criticism — remained  to  be  written ;  and 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  77 

Siisan  had  made  me  swear  by  the  Quanglewangle  's  Hat, 
her  favorite  symbol,  to  push  on  with  it  each  morning  till 
the  job  was  done. 

Well,  Aristocracy  and  Art  has  since  been  published  and, 
I  am  glad  to  say,  forgotten.  Conceived  in  supercilious- 
ness and  swaddled  in  preciosity,  it  is  one  of  the  sins  I  now 
strive  hardest  to  expiate.  But  in  those  days  it  expressed 
clearly  enough  the  crusted  aridity  of  my  soul.  How- 
ever  

I  had  hoped,  of  course,  that  Susan  would  break  over 
this  morning  and  breakfast  with  me.  She  did  not;  and 
from  sheer  habit  I  took  to  my  study  and  found  myself  in 
the  chair  before  my  desk.  It  was  my  purpose  to  think 
things  out,  and  perhaps  that  is  what  I  supposed  myself 
to  be  doing  as  I  stared  dully  at  an  ink  blob  on  my  blotter. 
It  looked — and  I  was  idiotically  pleased  by  the  resem- 
blance— rather  like  a  shark.  All  it  needed  was  some  teeth 
and  a  pair  of  flukes  for  its  tail.  Methodically  I  opened  my 
fountain  pen  and  supplied  these,  thereby  reducing  one 
fragment  of  chaos  to  order;  and  then  my  eye  fell  upon 
a  half -scribbled  sheet,  marked  "Page  224." 

The  final  sentence  on  the  sheet  caught  at  me  and  an- 
noyed me;  it  was  ill-constructed.  Presently  it  began  to 
rearrange  itself  in  whatever  portion  of  us  it  is  that  these 
shapings  and  reshapings  take  place.  Something  in  its 
rhythm,  too,  displeased  me ;  it  was  mannered ;  it  minu- 
etted;  it  echoed  Pater  at  his  worst.  It  should  be  simpler, 
stronger.  Why,  naturally !  I  lopped  at  it,  compressed  it, 
pulled  it  about.  .  .  . 

There!  At  last  the  naked  idea  got  the  clean  expression 
it  deserved ;  and  it  led  now  directly  to  a  brief,  clear  para- 
graph of  transition .  I  had  been  worrying  over  that  transi- 
tion the  morning  before  when  my  pen  stopped;  now  it 
came  with  a  smooth  rush,  carrying  me  forward  and  on. 

Incredible,  but  for  one  swiftly  annihilated  hour  I  forgot 
all  my  insoluble  life  problems!  Art,  that  ancient  Circe, 
had  waved  her  wand;  I  was  happy — and  it  was  enough. 
I  forgot  even  Susan. 


78  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Meanwhile,  Susan,  busy  at  her  notebook,  had  all  but 
forgotten  me, 

"Am  I  in  love  with  Ambo,  or  am  I  just  trying  to  be  for 
his  sake?  If  happiness  is  a  test,  then  I  can't  be  in  love 
with  him,  for  there  is  no  happiness  in  me.  But  what  has 
happiness  to  do  with  love?  It's  just  as  I  told  nice  old 
Phil  last  night.  To  be  in  love  is  to  be  silly  enough  to  sup- 
pose that  some  other  silly  can  gather  manna  for  you  from 
the  meadows  of  heaven.  Meanwhile,  the  other  silly  is 
supposing  much  the  same  nonsense  about  you — or  if  he 
isn't,  then  the  sun  goes  black.  What  lovers  seem  to  value 
most  in  each  other  is  premature  softening  of  the  brain. 
But  surely  the  union  of  two  vain  hopes  in  a  single  disap- 
pointment can  never  mean  joy?  No.  You  might  as  well 
get  it  said,  Susan.  Love  is  two  broken  reeds  trying  to  be 
a  Doric  column. 

"Still,  there  must  be  some  test.  Is  it  passion?  How 
can  it  be? 

"When  I  ran  to  Ambo  last  night  I  was  pure  rhythm 
and  flame;  but  this  morning  I'm  the  hour  before  sunrise. 
No;  I'm  the  outpost  star,  the  one  the  comets  turn — the 
one  that  peers  off  into  nowhere. 

"Perhaps  if  Ambo  came  to  me  now  I  should  flame 
again;  or  perhaps  I  should  only  make  believe  for  his 
sake.  Is  wanting  to  make  believe  for  another's  sake 
enough  ?  Why  not  ?  I  've  no  patience  with  lovers  who  are 
always  rhythm  and  flame.  Even  if  they  exist — outside  of 
maisons  de  sante — what  good  are  they?  Poets  can  rave 
about  them,  I  suppose — that 's  something ;  but  imagine  com- 
ing to  the  end  of  life  and  finding  that  one  had  merely 
furnished  good  copy  for  Swinburne !  No,  thank  you,  Mrs. 
Hephaestus — you  beautiful,  shameless  humbug!  I  prefer 
Apollo's  lonely  magic  to  yours.  I'd  rather  be  Swinburne 
than  Iseult.  If  there's  any  singing  left  to  be  done  I  shall 
try  to  do  part  of  it  myself. 

"There,  you  see;  already  you've  forgotten  Ambo  com> 
pletely — now  you'll  have  to  turn  back  and  hunt  for  him. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  79 

And  if  he's  really  working  on  Aristocracy  and  Art  this 
morning,  as  he  should  be,  then  he  has  almost  certainly  for- 
gotten you.  Oh,  dear !  but  he  isn  't — and  he  hasn  't !  Here 
he  comes " 

Yes,  I  came ;  but  not  to  ask  for  assurances  of  love.  Man 
is  so  naively  egotist,  it  takes  a  good  deal  to  convince  him, 
once  the  idea  has  been  accepted,  that  he  is  not  the  object  of 
an  unalterable  devotion.  Frankly,  I  took  it  for  granted  now 
that  Susan  loved  me,  and  would  continue  to  love  me  till  her 
dying  hour. 

"What  I  really  came  to  say  to  her,  under  the  calming 
and  strengthening  influence  of  two  or  three  rather  well- 
written  pages,  was  that  our  situation  had  definitely  become 
untenable.  I  am  an  emancipated  talker,  but  I  am  not 
an  emancipated  man;  the  distinction  is  important;  the 
hold  of  mere  custom  upon  me  is  strong.  I  could  not  see 
myself  asking  Susan  to  defy  the  world  with  me;  or  if  I 
could  just  see  it  for  my  own  sake,  I  certainly  couldn't  for 
hers.  Nor  could  I  see  it  for  Gertrude's.  Gertrude,  after 
all,  was  my  wife ;  and  though  she  chose  to  feel  I  had  driven 
her  from  my  society,  I  knew  that  she  did  not  feel  willing 
to  seek  divorce  for  herself  or  to  grant  the  freedom  of  it  to 
me.  On  this  point  her  convictions,  having  a  religious  sanc- 
tion, were  permanent.  Gentle  manners,  then,  if  nothing 
higher,  forbade  me  to  seize  the  freedom  she  denied  me. 
Having  persuaded  Gertrude,  in  good  faith,  to  enter  into 
an  unconditional  contract  with  me  for  life,  I  could  no  more 
bring  myself  to  break  it  than  I  could  have  forced  myself 
to  steal  another's  money  by  raising  a  check. 

My  New  England  ancestors  had  distilled  into  my  blood 
certain  prejudices;  only,  where  my  great-grandfather,  or 
even  my  grandfather,  would  have  said  that  he  refrained 
from  evil  because  he  feared  God,  I  was  content  merely  to 
feel  that  there  are  some  things  a  gentleman  doesn't  stoop 
to.  With  th«m  it  was  the  stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of 
God  who  ruled  thoughts  and  acts ;  with  me  it  was,  if  any- 
thing, the  class  obligations  of  culture,  breeding,  good  form. 


80  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Just  as  I  wore  correct  wedding  garments  at  a  wedding, 
and  would  far  rather  have  cut  my  throat  with  a  knife  than 
carry  food  on  it  from  plate  to  mouth,  so,  in  the  face  of  any 
of  life's  moral  or  emotional  crises,  I  clung  to  what  instinct 
and  cultivation  told  me  were  the  correct  sentiments. 

Gertrude,  it  is  true,  was  not  precisely  fulfilling  her  part 
in  our  contract,  but  then — Gertrude  was  a  woman;  and 
the  excusable  frailties  of  women  should  always  be  regarded 
as  trumpet  calls  to  the  chivalry  of  man.  Absurdly  primi- 
tive, such  ideas  as  these!  Seated  with  Maltby  Phar  in 
my  study,  I  had  laughed  them  out  of  court  many  a  time; 
for  I  could  talk  pure  Bernard  Shaw — our  prophet  of  those 
days — with  anybody,  and  even  go  him  one  better.  But 
when  it  came  to  the  pinch  of  decisive  action  I  had  always 
thrown  back  to  my  sources  and  left  the  responsibility  on 
them.  I  did  so  now. 

Yet  it  was  hard  to  speak  of  anything  but  enchantment, 
witchery,  fascination,  when,  from  her  desk,  Susan  looked 
round  to  me,  faintly  puzzled,  faintly  smiling.  She  was 
not  a  pretty  girl,  as  young  America — its  taste  superbly 
catered  to  by  popular  magazines — understands  that 
phrase ;  nor  was  she  beautiful  by  any  severe  classic  stand- 
ard— unless  you  are  willing  to  accept  certain  early  Italians 
as  having  established  classic  standards;  not  such  faultless 
painters  as  Raphael  or  Andrea  del  Sarto,  but  three  or  four 
of  the  wayward  lesser  men  whose  strangely  personal  vision 
created  new  and  unexpected  types  of  loveliness.  Not  that 
I  recall  a  single  head  by  any  one  of  them  that  prefigured 
Susan;  not  that  I  am  helping  you,  baffled  reader,  to  see 
her.  Words  are  a  dull  medium  for  portraiture,  or  I  am 
too  dull  a  dog  to  catch  with  them  even  a  phantasmal  like- 
less.  It  is  the  mixture  of  dark  and  bright  in  Susan  that 
eludes  me;  she  is  all  soft  shadow  and  sharpest  gleams. 
But  that  is  nonsense.  I  give  it  up. 

It  was  really,  then,  a  triumph  for  my  ancestors  that  I 
did  not  throw  myself  on  my  knees  beside  lier  chair — the 
true  romantic  attitude,  when  all's  said — and  draw  her 
dark-bright  face  down  to  mine.  I  halted  instead  just 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  81 

within  the  doorway,  retaining  a  deathlike  grip  on  the  door- 
knob. 

"Dear,"  I  blurted,  "it  won't  do.  It's  the  end  of  the 
road.  We  can't  go  on." 

"Can  we  turn  back?"  asked  Susan. 

I  wonder  the  solid  bronze  knob  did  not  shatter  like  hol- 
low glass  in  my  hand. 

"You  must  help  me,"  I  muttered. 

"Yes."  said  Susan,  all  quiet  shadow  now.  gleamless; 
"I'll  help  you." 

Half  an  hour  after  I  left  her  she  telephoned  and  dis- 
patched the  following  telegram,  signed  "Susan  Blake," 
to  Gertrude  at  her  New  York  address: 

"Either  come  'back  to  him  or  set  him  free.    Urgent." 

VI 

The  reply — a  note  from  Gertrude,  the  ink  hardly  dry  on 
it,  written  from  the  Egyptian  tomb  of  the  Misses  Carstairs 
— came  directly  to  me  that  evening;  and  Mrs.  Parrot  was 
the  messenger.  Her  expression,  as  she  mutely  handed  me 
the  note,  was  ineffable.  I  read  the  note  with  sensations  of 
suffocation ;  an  answer  was  requested. 

"Tell  Mrs.  Hunt,"  I  said  firmly  to  Mrs.  Parrot,  "that 
it  was  she  who  left  me,  and  I  am  stubbornly  determined 
to  make  no  advances.  If  she  cares  to  see  me  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  her.  She  has  only  to  walk  a  few  yards,  climb  a  few 
easy  steps,  and  ring  the  bell." 

My  courtesy  was  truly  elaborate  as  I  conducted  Mrs. 
Parrot  to  the  door.  Her  response  was  disturbing. 

"It's  not  for  me  to  make  observations,"  said  Mrs.  Par- 
rot, "the  situation  being  delicate,  and  not  likely  to  im- 
prove. But  if  I  was  you,  Mr.  Hunt,  I'd  not  be  too  stiff. 
No;  I'd  not  be.  I  would  not.  No.  Not  if  I  valued  the 
young  lady's  reputation." 

Like  the  Pope's  mule,  Mrs.  Parrot  had  saved  her  kick 
many  years.  I  can  testify  to  its  power. 


82  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Thirty  minutes  later  this  superkick  landed  me,  when 
I  came  crashing  back  to  earth,  at  the  door  of  the  Egyp- 
tian tomb. 

"How  hard  it  is,"  says  Dante,  "to  climb  another's 
stairs,"  and  he  might  have  added  to  ring  another's  bell, 
under  certain  conditions  of  spiritual  humiliation  and  stress. 
Thank  the  gods — all  of  them — it  was  not  Mrs.  Parrot  who 
admitted  me  and  took  my  card! 

I  waited  miserably  in  the  large,  ill-lighted  reception 
vault  of  the  tomb,  which  smelt  appropriately  of  lilies,  as 
if  the  undertaker  had  recently  done  his  worst.  How  well 
I  remembered  it,  how  long  I  had  avoided  it!  It  was  here' 
of  all  places,  under  the  contemptuous  eye  of  old  Ephraim 
Carstairs,  grim  ancestral  founder  of  this  family's  fortunes, 
that  Gertrude  had  at  last  consented  to  be  my  wife.  And 
there  he  still  lorded  it  above  the  fireplace,  unchanged,  glar- 
ing down  malignantly  through  the  shadows,  his  stiff  neck 
bandaged  like  a  mummy's,  his  hard,  high  cheek  bones  ard 
cavernous  eyes  making  him  the  very  image  of  bugaboo 
death.  What  an  eavesdropper  for  the  approaching  recon- 
ciliation; for  that  was  what  it  had  come  to.  That  was 
what  it  would  have  to  be ! 

It  was  not  Gertrude  who  came  down  to  me;  it  was 
Lucette.  Lucette — all  graciousness,  all  sympathetic  under- 
standing all  feline  smiles!  Dear  Gertrude  had  'phoned 
her  on  arriving,  and  she  had  rushed  to  her  at  once !  Dear 
Gertrude  had  such  a  desperate  headache!  She  couldn't 
possibly  see  me  to-night.  She  was  really  ill,  had  been  grow- 
ing rapidly  worse  for  an  hour.  Perhaps  to-morrow? 

I  was  in  no  mood  to  be  tricked  by  this  stale  subterfuge. 

"See  here,  Lucette,"  I  said  sternly,  "I'm  not  going  to 
fence  with  you  or  fool  round  at  cross  purposes.  Less  than 
an  hour  ago  Gertrude  sent  over  a  note,  asking  me  to  call." 

"To  which  you  returned  an  insufferable  verbal  reply." 

"A  bad-tempered  reply,  I  admit.  No  insult  was  in- 
tended. And  I've  come  now  to  apologize  for  the  temper." 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Lucette.  "Men  always  do  their 
thinking  too  late.  I  wish  I  could  reassure  you;  but  the 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  83 

mischief  seems  to  be  done.     Poor  Gertrude  is  furious." 

"Then  the  headache  is — hypothetical?" 

"An  excuse,  you  mean?  I  wish  it  were,  for  her  sake!" 
Lucette 's  eyes  positively  caressed  me,  as  a  tiger  might  lick 
the  still-warm  muzzle  of  an  antelope,  its  proximate  meal. 
"If  you  could  see  her  face,  poor  creature!  She's  in  tor- 
ment." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"Isn't  that — what  you  called  her  headache?" 

"No.  I 'm  ashamed  of  my  boorishness.  Let  me  see  Ger- 
trude and  tell  her  so. ' ' 

Lucette  smiled,  slightly  shaking  her  head.  "Impossible 
— till  she's  feeling  better.  And  not  then — unless  she 
changes  her  mind.  You  see,  Ambrose,  Mrs.  Parrot's  ver- 
sion of  your  reply  was  the  last  straw." 

"No  doubt  she  improved  on  the  original,"  I  muttered. 

"Oh,  no  doubt,"  agreed  Lucette  calmly.  "She  would. 
It  was  silly  of  you  not  to  think  of  that." 

"Yes,"  I  snapped.  "Men  always  underestimate  a 
•woman's  malice." 

"They  have  so  many  distractions,  poor  dears.  Men,  I 
mean.  And  we  have  so  few.  You  can  put  that  in  your  next 
article,  Ambrose?"  She  straightened  her  languid  curves 
deliberately,  as  if  preparing  to  rise. 

"Please!"  I  exclaimed.  "I'm  not  ready  for  dismissal 
yet.  "We'll  get  down  to  facts,  if  you  don't  mind.  Why  is 
Gertrude  here  at  all?  After  years  of  silence?  Did  you 
send  for  her?" 

Lucette 's  spine  slowly  relaxed,  her  shoulders  drooped 
once  more.  "I?  My  dear  Ambrose,  why  on  earth  should 
I  do  a  thing  like  that?" 

"I  don't  know.    The  point  is,  did  you?" 

"You  think  it  in  character?" 

"Oh — be  candid!  I  don't  mean  directly,  of  course. 
But  is  she  here  because  of  anything  you  may  have  tele- 
phoned her — after  your  call  last  night?" 

* '  Really,  Ambrose !  This  is  a  little  too  much,  even  from 
you." 


84  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

' '  Forgive  me — I  insist !    Is  she  ? ' ' 

' '  You  must  have  a  very  bad  conscience, ' '  replied  Lucette. 

"I  am  more  interested  in  yours." 

She  laughed  luxuriously,  ' '  Mine  has  never  been  clearer. ' ' 

Did  the  woman  want  me  to  stop  her  breath  with  bare 
hands?  I  gripped  the  mahogany  arms  of  my  stiff  Chip- 
pendale chair. 

"Listen  to  me,  Lucette!  I  know  this  is  all  very  thrill- 
ing and  amusing  for  you.  Vivisection  must  have  its 
charms,  of  course — for  an  expert.  But  I  venture  to  re- 
mind you  that  once  upon  a  time  you  were  not  a  bad- 
hearted  girl,  and  you  must  have  some  remnants  of  human 
sympathy  about  you  somewhere.  Am  I  wrrong?" 

"You're  hideously  rude." 

"Granted.  But  I  must  place  you.  I  won't  accept  you 
as  an  onlooker.  Either  you'll  fight  me  or  help  me — or 
clear  out.  Is  that  plain?" 

"You're  worse  than  rude,"  said  Lucette;  "you're  a 
beast!  I  always  wondered  why  Gertrude  couldn't  live 
with  you.  Now  I  know." 

"That's  better,"  I  hazarded.  "We're  beginning  to 
understand  each  other.  Now  let 's  lay  all  our  cards  face  up 
on  the  table?" 

Lucette  stared  at  me  a  moment,  her  lips  pursed,  dubious, 
her  impenetrable  blue  eyes  holding  mine. 

"I  will,  if  you  will,"  she  said  finally.    "Let's." 

It  was  dangerous,  I  knew,  to  take  her  at  her  word;  yet 
I  ventured. 

"I've  a  weak  hand,  Lucette;  but  there's  one  honest  ace 
of  trumps  in  it." 

"There  could  hardly  be  two,"  smiled  Lucette. 

"No;  I  count  on  that.  In  a  pinch,  I  shall  take  the  one 
trick  essential,  and  throw  the  others  away."  I  leaned  to 
her  and  spoke  slowly :  ' '  There  is  no  reason,  affecting  her 
honor  or  rights,  why  Gertrude  may  not  return  to  her  home 
— if  she  so  desires.  I  think  you  understand  me?" 

"Perfectly.  You  wish  to  protect  Miss  Blake.  You 
would  try  to  do  that  in  any  case,  wouldn  't  you  ?  But  I  'm 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  85 

rather  afraid  you're  too  late.  I'm  afraid  Miss  Blake  has 
handicapped  you  too  heavily.  If  so,  it  was  clever  of  her — 
for  she  must  have  done  it  on  purpose.  You  see,  Ambrose, 
it  was  she  who  sent  for  Gertrude." 

"Susan!" 

"Susan.  Telegraphed  her — of  all  things! — either  to 
come  home  to  you  or  set  you  free.  The  implication 's  trans- 
parent. Especially  as  I  had  thought  it  my  duty  to  warn 
Gertrude  in  advance — and  as  Mr.  Phar  sent  her,  by  mes- 
senger, a  vague  but  very  disturbing  note  this  morning." 

"Maltby?" 

"Yes.  His  note  was  delivered  not  five  minutes  ahead  of 
Susan's  wire.  Gertrude  caught  the  next  train.  And  there 
you  are. ' ' 

Well,  at  least  I  began  to  see  now,  dimly,  where  Maltby 
was,  where  Susan  was,  where  we  all  were — except,  possibly 
Gertrude.  Putting  enormous  constraint  on  my  leaping 
nerves,  I  subdued  every  trace  of  anger. 

' '  Two  more  questions,  Lucette.  Do  yon  believe  me  when 
I  say,  with  all  the  sincerity  I'm  capable  of,  that  Susan 
is  slandered  by  these  suspicions?" 

' '  Really, ' '  answered  Lucette,  with  a  little  worried  frown, 
as  if  anxiously  balancing  alternatives,  "I'm  not,  am  I,  in  a 
position  to  judge?" 

I  swallowed  hard.  "All  right,"  I  managed  to  say  coldly. 
' '  Then  I  have  placed  you.  You  're  not  an  onlooker — you  're 
an  open  foe." 

"And  the  second  question,  Ambrose?" 

"What,  precisely,  does  Gertrude  want  from  me?" 

"I'm  not,  am  I,  in  a  position  to  judge?"  repeated  Lu- 
cette. "But  one  supposes  it  depends  a  little  on  what 
you're  expecting — from  her?" 

"All  I  humbly  plead  for,"  said  I,  "is  a  chance  to  see 
Gertrude  alone  and  talk  things  over." 

"Don't  you  mean  talk  her  over?"  suggested  Lucette. 
"And  aren't  you,"  she  murmured,  "forgetting  the  last 
straw  ? ' ' 


86  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 


vn 

My  confusion  of  mind,  my  consternation,  as  I  left  the 
Egyptian  tomb,  was  pitiable.  One  thing,  one  only,  I  saw 
with  distinctness:  The  being  I  loved  best  was  to  be  har- 
ried and  smirched,  an  innocent  victim  of  the  folly  and 
malignity  of  others. 

"Never,"  I  muttered.     "Never — never — never!" 

This  was  all  very  grim  and  virile;  yet  I  knew  that  I 
could  grit  my  teeth  and  mutter  Never!  from  now  till  the 
moon  blossomed,  without  in  any  way  affecting  the  wretched 
situation.  Words,  emotional  contortions,  attitudes — would 
not  help  Susan;  something  sensible  must  be  done — the 
sooner  the  better.  Something  sensible  and  decisive — but 
what?  There  were  so  many  factors  involved,  human,  in- 
calculable factors;  my  thought  staggered  among  them, 
fumbling  like  a  drunken  man  for  the  one  right  door  that 
must  be  found  and  opened  with  the  one  right  key.  It  was 
no  use;  I  should  never  be  able  to  manage  it  alone.  To 
whom  could  I  appeal  ?  Susan,  for  the  time  being,  was  out 
of  the  question;  Maltby  had  maliciously  betrayed  a  long 
friendship.  Phil?  Why  of  course,  there  was  always  Phil! 
Why  hadn't  I  thought  of  him  before? 

I  turned  sharply  and  swung  into  a  rapid  stride.  With 
some  difficulty  I  kept  myself  from  running.  Phil  seemed 
to  me  suddenly  an  intellectual  giant,  a  man  of  infinite 
heart  and  unclouded  will.  Why  had  I  never  appreciated 
him  at  his  true  worth?  My  whirling  perplexities  would 
have  no  terrors  for  him ;  he  would  at  once  see  through 
them  to  the  very  thing  that  should  at  once  be  undertaken. 
Singular  effect  of  an  overwhelming  desire  and  need !  Faith 
is  always  born  of  desperation.  We  are  forced  by  deep- 
lying  instincts  to  trust  something,  someone,  when  we  can 
no  longer  trust  ourselves.  As  I  hurried  down  York  Street 
'to  his  door,  my  sudden  faith  in  Phil  was  like  the  faith 
of  a  broken-spirited  convert  in  the  wisdom  and  mercy  of 
God. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  87 

Phil's  quarters  were  on  the  top  floor  of  a  rooming-house 
for  students;  he  had  the  whole  top  floor  to  himself  and 
had  lived  there  simply  and  contentedly  many  years,  with 
his  books,  his  pipes,  his  papers,  and  his  small  open  wood 
fire.  Phil  is  not  destitute  of  taste,  but  he  is  by  no  means 
an  aesthete.  His  furniture  is  of  the  ordinary  college- 
room  type — Morris  chair  of  fumed  oak,  and  so  on — picked 
up  as  he  needed  it  at  the  nearest  department  store;  but 
he  has  two  or  three  really  good  framed  etchings  on  the 
walls  of  his  study ;  one  Seymour  Haden  in  particular — the 
Erith  Marshes — which  I  have  often  tried  to  persuade  him 
to  part  with.  There  is  a  blending  of  austerity  and  subtlety 
in  the  work  of  the  great  painter-etchers  that  could  not 
but  appeal  to  this  austere  yet  finely  organized  man. 

His  books  are  wonderful — not  for  edition  or  binding — he 
is  not  a  bibliophile;  they  are  wonderful  because  he  keeps 
nothing  he  has  not  found  it  worth  while  to  annotate. 
There  is  no  volume  on  his  shelves  whose  inside  covers  and 
margins  are  not  filled  with  criticism  or  suggestive  comment 
in  his  neat  spiderwebby  hand;  and  Phil's  marginal  notes 
are  usually  far  better  reading  than  the  original  text.  Susan 
warmly  maintains  that  she  owes  more  to  the  inside  covers 
of  Phil's  books  than  to  any  other  source;  insists,  in  fact, 
that  a  brief  note  in  his  copy  of  Santayana's  Reason  in 
Common  Sense,  at  the  end  of  the  first  chapter,  established 
her  belief  once  for  all  in  mind  as  a  true  thing,  an  inde- 
structible and  creative  reality,  destined  after  infinite  strug- 
gle to  win  its  grim  fight  with  chaos.  I  confess  I  could 
never  myself  see  in  this  note  anything  to  produce  so  amaz- 
ing an  affirmation;  but  in  these  matters  I  am  a  worm;  I 
have  not  the  philosophic  flair.  Here  it  is : 

"  '"We  know  that  life  is  a  dream,  and  how  should  think- 
ing be  more?'  Because,  my  dear  Mr.  Santayana,  a  dream 
cannot  propagate  dreams  and  realize  them  to  be  such.  The 
answer  is  sufficient." 

Well,  certainly  Susan,  too,  seemed  to  feel  it  sufficient; 
and  perhaps  I  should  agree  if  I  better  understood  the 
answer.  .  .  .  But  I  have  now  breasted  four  flights  to  Phil 


88  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

and  am  knocking  impatiently.  .  .  .  He  opened  to  me  and 
welcomed  me  cordially,  all  trace  of  his  parting  gruffness 
of  the  other  evening  having  vanished,  though  he  was  still 
haggard  about  the  eyes.  He  was  not  alone.  Through  the 
smoke  haze  of  his  study  I  saw  a  well-built  youngster  stand- 
ing near  the  fireplace,  pipe  in  hand;  some  college  boy,  of 
course,  whom  Phil  was  being  kind  to.  Phil  was  forever 
permitting  these  raw  boys  to  cut  in  upon  his  precious  hours 
of  privacy;  yet  he  was  at  the  opposite  pole  from  certain 
faculty  members,  common  to  all  seats  of  learning,  who 
toady  to  the  student  body  for  a  popularity  which  they  feel 
to  be  a  good  business  asset,  or  which  they  find  the  one  at- 
tainable satisfaction  for  their  tottering  self-esteem. 

Phil,  who  had  had  to  struggle  for  his  own  education, 
was  genuinely  fond  of  young  men  who  cared  enough  for 
education  to  be  willing  to  struggle  for  theirs.  He  had  be- 
come unobtrusively,  by  a  kind  of  natural  affinity,  the  elder 
brother  of  those  undergraduates  who  were  seekers  in  any 
sense  for  the  things  of  the  mind.  For  the  rest,  the  tri- 
umphant majority — fine,  manly  young  fellows  as  they 
usually  were,  in  official  oratory  at  least — he  was  as  blankly 
indifferent  as  they  were  to  him. 

"My  enthusiasm  for  humanity  is  limited,  fatally  lim- 
ited," he  would  pleasantly  admit.  "For  the  human  tur- 
nip, even  when  it's  a  prize  specimen,  I  have  no  spon- 
taneous affection  whatever." 

On  the  other  hand  it  was  not  the  brilliant,  exceptional 
boy  whom  he  best  loved.  It  was  rather  the  boy  whose  in- 
terest in  life,  whose  curiosity,  was  just  stirring  toward 
wakefulness  after  a  long  prenatal  and  postnatal  sleep. 
For  such  boys  Phil  poured  forth  treasures  of  sympa- 
thetic understanding ;  and  it  was  such  a  youth,  I  presume, 
who  stood  by  the  fireplace  now,  awkwardly  uncertain 
whether  my  coming  meant  that  he  should  take  his  leave. 

His  presence  annoyed  me.  On  more  than  one  occasion 
I  had  run  into  this  sort  of  thing  at  Phil's  rooms,  had  suf- 
fered from  the  curious  inability  of  the  undergraduate, 
even  when  he  longs  himself  to  escape,  to  end  a  visit — take 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  89 

his  hat,  say  good-by  simply,  and  go.  It  doesn't  strike 
one  offhand  as  a  social  accomplishment  of  enormous  diffi- 
culty; yet  it  must  be — it  so  paralyzes  the  social  resource- 
fulness of  the  young. 

Phil  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Kane,  and  Mr.  Kane  drooped 
his  right  shoulder — the  correct  attitude  for  this  form  of 
assault — grasped  my  hand,  and  shattered  my  nerves — with 
the  dislocating  squeeze  which  young  America  has  perfected 
as  the  high  sign  of  all  that  is  virile  and  sincere.  I  sank 
into  a  chair  to  recover,  and  to  my  consternation  Mr.  Kane, 
too,  sat  down. 

"Jimmy's  just  come  to  us,"  said  Phil,  relighting  his 
pipe.  "He  passed  his  entrance  examinations  in  Detroit 
last  spring,  but  he  had  to  finish  up  a  job  he  was  on  out 
there  before  coming  East.  So  he  has  a  good  deal  of  work 
to  make  up,  first  and  last.  And  ite's  all  the  harder  for 
him,  because  he's  dependent  upon  himself  for  support." 

"Oh,"  said  Jimmy,  "what  I've  saved '11  last  me  through 
this  year,  I  guess." 

"Yes,"  Phil  agreed;  "but  it's  a  pity  to  touch  what 
you've  saved."  He  turned  to  me.  "You  see,  Hunt,  we're 
talking  over  all  the  prospects.  Aren't  we,  Jimmy?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Jimmy.  "Prof.  Farmer  thinks," 
he  added,  "that  I  may  be  making  a  mistake  to  try  it  here  j 
he  thinks  it  may  be  a  waste  of  time.  I'm  kind  of  up  in  the 
air  about  it,  myself." 

"Jimmy's  rather  a  special  case,"  struck  in  Phil,  drop- 
ping into  a  Morris  chair  and  thrusting  his  legs  out.  ' '  He 's 
twenty-two  now;  and  he's  already  made  remarkably  good 
as  an  expert  mechanic.  He  left  his  home  here  over  six 
years  ago,  worked  his  way  to  Detroit,  applied  for  a  job 
and  got  it.  Now  there's  probably  no  one  in  New  Haven 
who  knows  more  than  this  young  man  about  gas  engines, 
steel  alloys,  shop  organization,  and  all  that.  The  little 
job  that  detained  him  was  the  working  out  of  some  minor 
but  important  economy  in  the  manufacture  of  automo- 
biles. He  suggested  it  by  letter  to  the  president  of  the 


90  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

company  himself,  readily  obtained  several  interviews  with 
his  chief,  and  was  given  a  chance  to  try  it  out. 

"It  has  proved  its  practical  worth  already,  though  you 
and  I  are  far  too  ignorant  to  understand  it.  As  a  result, 
the  president  of  the  company  offered  him  a  much  higher 
position  at  an  excellent  salary.  It's  open  to  him  still, 
if  he  chooses  to  go  back  for  it.  But  Jimmy  has  decided 
to  turn  it  down  for  a  college  education.  And  I'm  wonder- 
ing, Hunt,  whether  Yale  has  anything  to  give  him  that 
will  justify  such  a  sacrifice — anything  that  he  couldn't 
obtain  for  himself,  at  much  less  expense,  without  three 
years  waste  of  time  and  opportunity.  How  does  it  strike 
you,  old  man?  What  would  you  say,  offhand,  without 
weighing  the  matter?" 

"What  I  wanted  to  say  was,  ' '  Damn  it  all !  I  'm  not  here 
at  this  time  of  night  to  interest  myself  in  the  elementary 
problems  of  Jimmy  Kane!"  In  fact,  I  did  say  it  to  my- 
self, with  considerable  energy — only  to  stop  at  the  name, 
to  stare  at  the  boy  before  me,  and  to  exclaim  in  a  swift 
flash  of  connection,  "Great  Scott!  Are  you  Susan's 
Jimmy  ? ' ' 

"  'Susan's  Jimmy'!"  snorted  Phil,  with  a  peculiar  grin. 
"Of  course  he's  Susan's  Jimmy!  I  wondered  how  long  it 
would  take  you ! ' ' 

As  for  Susan's  Jimmy,  his  expression  was  one  of  deso- 
lated amazement.  Either  his  host  and  his  host's  friend, 
or  he  himself — had  gone  suddenly  mad!  The  drop  of 
his  jaw  was  parentheses  about  a  question  mark.  His  blue 
eyes  piteously  stared. 

"I  guess  I'm  not  on,  sir,"  he  mumbled  to  Phil,  blush- 
ing hotly. 

He  was  really  a  most  attractive  youth,  considering  his 
origins.  I  eyed  him  now  shamelessly,  and  was  forced  to 
wonder  that  the  wrong  end  of  Birch  Street  should  have 
produced  not  only  Susan — who  would  have  proved  the 
phoenix  of  any  environment — but  this  pleasant-faced, 
confidence-inspiring  boy,  whose  expression  so  oddly  min- 
gled simplicity,  energy,  stubborn  self-respect,  and  the  cheer- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  91 

fulness  of  good  health,  an  unspoiled  will,  and  a  hopeful 
heart.  He  seemed  at  once  too  mature  for  his  years  and 
too  nai've ;  concentration  had  already  modelled  his  forehead, 
but  there  was  innocence  in  his  eyes.  Innocence — I  can 
only  call  it  that.  His  eyes  looked  out  at  the  world  with 
the  happiest  candor ;  and  I  found  myself  predicting  of  him 
what  I  had  never  yet  predicted  of  mortal  woman  or  man : 
"He's  capable  of  anything — but  sophistication;  he'll  get 
on,  he'll  arrive  somewhere — but  he  will  never  change." 

Phil,  meanwhile,  had  eased  his  embarrassment  with  a 
friendly  laugh.  "It's  all  right,  Jimmy;  we're  not  the 
lunatics  we  sound.  Don't  you  remember  Bob  Blake's  kid 
on  Birch  Street?" 

"Oh!     Her?" 

"Mr.  Hunt  became  her  guardian,  you  know,  after " 

"Oh!"  interrupted  Jimmy,  beaming  on  me.  "You're 
the  gentleman  that " 

"Yes,"  I  responded;  "I'm  the  unbelievably  fortunate 
man." 

"She  was  a  queer  little  kid,"  reflected  Jimmy.  "I 
haven't  thought  about  her  for  a  long  time." 

"That's  ungrateful  of  you,"  said  Phil;  "but  of  course 
you  couldn't  know  that." 

Question  mark  and  parentheses  formed  again. 

"Phil  means,"  I  explained,  "that  Susan  has  never  for- 
gotten you.  It  seems  you  did  battle  for  her  once,  down 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Birch  Street  incline?" 

"Oh,  gee!"  grinned  Jimmy.  "The  time  I  laid  out  Joe 
Gonf arone  ?  Maybe  I  wasn  't  scared  stiff  that  day !  Well, 
what  d'y'  think  of  her  remembering  that!" 

"You'll  find  it's  a  peculiarity  of  Susan/*  said  Phil, 
"that  she  doesn't  forget  anything." 

"Why — she  must  be  grown  up  by  this  time,"  surmised 
Jimmy.  ' '  It  was  mighty  fine  of  you,  Mr.  Hunt,  to  do  what 
you  did !  I  'd  kind  of  like  to  see  her  again  some  day.  But 
maybe  she'd  rather  not,"  he  added  quickly. 

"Why?"  asked  Phil. 


92  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

""Well,"  said  Jimmy,  "she  had  a  pretty  ra-tf  deal  on 
Birch  Street.  Seeing  me — might  bring  back  things?" 

"It  couldn't,"  I  reassured  him.  "Susan  has  never  let 
go  of  them.  She  uses  all  her  experience,  every  part  of  it, 
every  day." 

Jimmy  grinned  again.  "It  must  keep  her  hustling! 
But  she  always  was  different,  I  guess,  from  the  rest  of  us. ' ' 
With  a  vague  wonder,  he  addressed  us  both:  "You  think 
a  lot  of  her,  don't  you?" 

For  some  detached,  ironic  god  this  moment  must  have 
been  exquisite.  I  envied  the  god  his  detachment.  The 
blank  that  had  followed  his  question  puzzled  Jimmy  and 
turned  him  awkward.  He  fidgeted  with  his  feet. 

"Well,"  he  finally  achieved,  "I  guess  I'd  better  be  off, 
professor.  I'll  think  over  all  you  said." 

"Do,"  counselled  Phil,  rising,  "and  come  to  see  me 
to-morrow.  We  mustn't  let  you  take  a  false  step  if  we 
can  avoid  it." 

"It's  certainly  great  of  you  to  show  so  much  interest," 
said  Jimmy,  hunching  himself  at  last  out  of  his  chair. 
"I  appreciate  it  a  lot."  He  hesitated,  then  plunged. 
"It's  been  well  worth  it  to  me  to  come  East  again — just 
to  meet  you." 

"Nonsense!"  laughed  Phil,  shepherding  him  skillfully 
toward  the  door.  .  .  . 

When  he  turned  back  to  me,  it  was  with  the  evident  in- 
tention of  discussing  further  Jimmy's  personal  and  educa- 
tional problems;  but  I  rebelled. 

"Phil,"  I  said,  "I  know  what  Susan  means  to  you,  and 
you  know — I  think — what  she  means  to  me.  Now,  through 
my  weakness,  stupidity,  or  something,  Susan's  in  danger. 
Sit  down  please,  and  let  me  talk.  I'm  going  to  give  you 
all  the  facts,  everything — a  full  confession.  It's  bound, 
for  many  reasons,  to  be  painful  for  both  of  us.  I  'm  sorry, 
old  man — but  we'll  have  to  rise  to  it  for  Susan's  sake; 
see  this  thing  through  together.  I  feel  utterly  imbecile  and 
helpless  alone." 

Half  an  hour  later  I  had  ended  my  monologue,  and  we 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  93 

both  sat  silent,  staring  at  the  dulled  embers  on  the 
hearth.  .  .  . 

At  length  Phil  drew  in  a  slow,  involuntary  breath. 

"Hunt,"  he  said,  "it's  a  humiliating  thing  for  a  pro- 
fessional philosopher  to  admit,  but  I  simply  can't  trust 
myself  to  advise  you.  I  don't  know  what  you  ought  to 
do ;  I  don 't  know  what  Susan  ought  to  do ;  or  what  I  should 
do.  I  don 't  even  know  what  your  wife  should  do ;  though 
I  feel  fairly  certain  that  whatever  it  is,  she  will  try  some- 
thing else.  Frankly,  I'm  too  much  a  part  of  it  all,  too 
heartsick,  for  honest  thought." 

He  smiled  drearily  and  added,  as  if  at  random:  "  'Physi- 
cian, heal  thyself.'  What  an  abysmal  joke!  How  the 
fiends  of  hell  must  treasure  it.  They  have  only  one  better 
— 'Man  is  a  reasonable  being!'  '  He  rose,  or  rather  he 
seemed  to  be  propelled  from  his  chair.  "Hunt!  Would 
you  really  like  to  know  what  all  my  days  and  nights  of 
intense  study  have  come  to?  The  kind  of  man  you've 
turned  to  for  strength?  My  life  has  come  to  just  this: 
I  love  her,  and  she  doesn't  love  me! 

"  Oh ! "  he  cried — ' '  Go  home.  For  God 's  sake,  go  home ! 
I'm  ashamed.  ..." 

So  I  departed,  like  Omar,  through  the  same  door  wherein 
I  went ;  but  not  before  I  had  grasped — as  it  seemed  to  me 
for  the  first  time — Phil's  hand. 


vni 

There  are  some  verses  in  Susan 's  notebook  of  this  period, 
themselves  undated,  and  never  subsequently  published, 
which — from  their  position  on  the  page — must  have  been 
written  about  this  time  and  may  have  been  during  the 
course  of  the  momentous  evening  on  which  I  met  Jimmy 
Kane  at  Phil  Farmer's  rooms.  I  give  them  now,  not  as  a 
favorable  specimen  of  her  work,  since  she  thought  best 
to  exclude  them  from  her  first  volume,  but  because  they 
throw  some  light  at  least  on  the  complicated  and  rather 
obscure  state  of  mind  that  was  then  hers.  They  have  no 


94  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

title,  and  need  none.    If  you  should  feel  they  need  inter- 
pretation— "guarda  e  passa"!    They  are  not  for  you. 

Though  she  rose  from  the  sea 

There  were  stains  upon  her  whiteness; 

All  earth's  waters  had  not  sleeked  her  clean. 

For  no  tides  gave  her  birth, 

Nor  the  salt,  glimmering  middle  depths; 

But  slime  spawned  her,  the  couch  of  life, 

The  sunless  ooze, 

The  green  bed  of  Poseidon, 

Where  with  sordid  Chaos  he  mingles  obscurely. 

Her  flanks  were  of  veined  marble; 

There  were  stains  upon  her. 

But  she  who  passes,  lonely, 

Through  waste  places, 

Through  bog  and  forest; 

Who  follows  boar  and  stag 

Unwearied; 

Who  sleeps,  fearless,  among  the  hills; 

Though  she  track  the  wilds, 

Though  she  breast  the  crags, 

Choosing  no  path — 

Her  kirtle  tears  not, 

Her  ankles  gleam, 

Her  sandals  are  silver. 

IX 

It  was  midnight  when  I  reached  my  own  door  that  night, 
but  I  was  in  no  mood  for  lying  in  bed  stark  awake  in  the 
spiritual  isolation  of  darkness.  I  went  straight  to  my 
study,  meaning  to  make  up  a  fire  and  then  hypnotize  my- 
self into  some  form  of  lethargy  by  letting  my  eyes  follow 
the  printed  lines  of  a  book.  If  reading  in  any  other  sense 
than  physical  habit  proved  beyond  me,  at  least  the  narcotic 
monotony  of  habit  might  serve. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  95 

But  I  found  a  fire,  already  falling  to  embers,  and  Susan 
before  it,  curled  into  my  big  wing  chair,  her  feet  beneath 
her,  her  hands  lying  palms  upward  in  her  lap.  This  picture 
fixed  me  in  the  doorway  while  my  throat  tightened.  Susan 
did  not  stir,  but  she  was  not  sleeping.  She  had  withdrawn. 

Presently  she  spoke,  absently — from  Saturn's  rings;  or 
the  moon. 

"Ambo?  I've  been  waiting  to  talk  to  you;  but  now  I 
can 't  or  I  '11  lose  it — the  whole  movement.  It 's  like  a  sym- 
phony— great  brasses  groaning  and  cursing — and  then 
violins  tearing  through  the  tumult  to  soar  above  it. ' ' 

Her  eyes  shut  for  a  moment.  When  she  opened  them 
again  it  was  to  shake  herself  free  from  whatever  spell  had 
bound  her.  She  half  yawned,  and  smiled. 

"Gone,  dear — all  gone.  It's  not  your  fault.  Words 
wouldn't  hold  it.  Music  might — but  music  doesn't  come. 
.  .  .  Oh,  poor  Ambo — you've  had  a  wretched  time  of  it! 
How  tired  you  look ! ' ' 

I  shut  the  door  quietly  and  went  to  her,  sitting  on  the 
hearth  rug  at  her  feet,  my  knees  in  my  arms. 

"Sweetheart,"  I  said,  "it  seems  that  in  spite  of  myself 
I've  done  you  little  good  and  about  all  the  harm  possible." 
And  I  made  a  clean  breast  of  all  the  facts  and  fears  that 
the  evening  had  developed.  "So  you  see,"  I  ended,  "what 
my  guardianship  amounts  to ! " 

Susan's  hand  came  to  my  shoulder  and  drew  me  back 
against  her  knees ;  she  did  not  remove  her  hand. 

"Ambo,"  she  protested  gently,  "I'm  just  a  little  angry 
with  you,  I  think." 

"No  wonder!" 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed.  "If  I  am  angry  it's  because  you 
can  say  stupid  things  like  that !  Don 't  you  see,  Ambo,  the 
very  moment  things  grow  difficult  for  us  you  forget  to 
believe  in  me — begin  to  act  as  if  I  were  a  common  or 
garden  fool  ?  I  'm  not,  though.  Surely  you  must  know  in 
your  heart  that  everything  you  're  afraid  of  for  me  doesn  't 
matter  in  the  least.  What  harm  could  slander  or  scandal 
possibly  do  me,  dear?  Me,  I  mean?  I  shouldn't  like  it, 


96  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

of  course,  because  I  hate  everything  stodgy  and  formidable- 
ment  bete.  But  if  it  happens,  I  shan't  lose  much  sleep  over 
it.  You're  worrying  about  the  wrong  things,  Ambo; 
things  that  don't  even  touch  our  real  problem.  And  the 
real  problem  may  prove  to  be  the  real  tragedy,  too." 

"Tragedy?"  I  mumbled. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not — I  think  not!  It  all  depends  on  whether 
you  care  for  freedom;  on  whether  you're  really  passion's 
slave.  I  don't  believe  you  are." 

The  words  wounded  me.  I  shifted,  to  look  up  at,  to 
question,  her  shadowy  face.  "Susan,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  suppose  I  mean  that  I'm  not,  Ambo.  You're  far 
dearer  to  me  than  anybody  else  on  earth;  your  happiness, 
your  peace,  mean  everything  to  me.  If  you  honestly  can't 
find  life  worth  while  without  me — can't — I'll  go  with  you 
anywhere;  or  face  the  music  with  you  right  here.  First, 
though,  I  must  be  sincere  with  you.  I  can  live  away  from 
you,  and  still  make  a  life  for  myself.  Except  your  day- 
by-day  companionship — I'd  be  lonely  without  that,  of 
course — I  shouldn't  lose  anything  that  seems  to  me  really 
worth  keeping.  Above  all,  I  shouldn't  really  lose  you." 

"Susan!    You're  planning  to  leave  me!" 

"But,  Ambo — it's  only  what  you've  felt  to  be  neces- 
sary; what  you've  been  planning  for  me!" 

"As  a  duty — at  the  bitterest  possible  cost!  How  dif- 
ferent that  is !  You  not  only  plan  to  leave  me — I  feel  that 
you  want  to ! " 

"Yes,  I  want  to.    But  only  if  you  can  understand  why." 

"I  don't  understand!" 

"Ah,  wait,  Ambo!  You're  not  speaking  for  yourself. 
You're  a  slave  now,  speaking  for  your  master.  But  it's 
you  I  want  to  talk  to ! " 

I  snarled  at  this.  ' '  Why  ?  When  you  Ve  discovered  your 
mistake  so  soon !  .  .  .  You  don 't  love  me. ' ' 

She  sighed,  deeply  unhappy;  though  my  thin-skinned 
self-esteem  wrung  from  her  sigh  a  shade  of  impatience, 
too. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  97 

"If  not,  dear,"  she  said,  "we  had  better  find  it  out  be- 
fore it's  too  late.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  Perhaps  love  is 
something  I  only  guess  at  and  go  wrong  about.  If  love 
means  that  I  should  be  utterly  lost  in  you  and  nothing  with- 
out you — if  it  means  that  I  would  rather  die  than  leave 
you — well,  then  I  don't  love  you.  But  all  the  same,  if 
love  honestly  means  that  to  you — I  can't  and  wron't  go 
away. ' '  She  put  out  her  hand  again  swiftly,  and  tightened 
her  fingers  on  mine. 

' '  It 's  a  test,  then.  Is  that  it  ? "  I  demanded.  ' '  You  want 
to  go  because  you're  not  sure?" 

"I'm  sure  of  what  I  feel,"  she  broke  in;  "and  more  than, 
that,  I  doubt  if  I'm  made  so  that  I  can  ever  feel  more. 
No;  that  isn't  why  I  want  to  go.  I'll  go  if  you  can  let 
me,  because — oh,  I've  got  to  say  it,  Ambo! — because  at 
heart  I  love  freedom  better  than  I  love  love — or  you.  And 
there 's  something  else.  I  'm  afraid  of — please  try  to  under- 
stand this,  dear — I'm  afraid  of  stuffiness  for  us  both!" 

"Stuffiness?" 

"Sex  is  stuffy,  Ambo.  The  more  people  let  it  mess  up 
their  lives  for  them,  the  stuffier  they  grow.  It's  really 
what  you've  been  afraid  of  for  me — though  you  don't  put 
it  that  way.  But  you  hate  the  thought  of  people  saying — • 
with  all  the  muddy  little  undercurrents  they  stir  up  round 
such  things — that  you  and  I  have  been  passion's  slaves. 
We  haven 't  been — but  we  might  be ;  and  suppose  we  were. 
It's  the  truth  about  us — not  the  lies — that  makes  all  the 
difference.  You're  you — and  I'm  I.  It's  because  we're 
worth  while  to  ourselves  that  we're  worth  while  to  each 
other.  Isn't  that  true?  But  how  long  shall  we  be  worth, 
anything  to  ourselves  or  to  each  other  if  we  accept  love  as 
slavery,  and  get  to  feeling  that  we  can't  face  life,  if  it 
seems  best,  alone  ?  Ambo,  dear,  do  you  see  at  all  what  I  'm 
driving  at?" 

Yes;  I  was  beginning  to  see.  Miss  Goucher's  desolate 
words  came  suddenly  back  to  me:  "Susan  dcesn't  need 
you." 


98  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 


Next  morning,  while  I  supposed  her  at  work  in  her 
room,  Susan  slipped  down  the  back  stairs  and  off  through 
the  garden.  It  was  a  heavy  forenoon  for  me,  perhaps 
the  bleakest  and  dreariest  of  my  life.  But  it  was  a 
busy  forenoon  for  Susan.  She  began  its  activities  by  a 
brave  intuitive  stroke.  She  entered  the  Egyptian  tomb 
and  demanded  an  interview  with  Gertrude.  What  is 
stranger,  she  carried  her  point — as  I  was  presently  to  be 
made  aware. 

Miss  Goucher  tapped  at  the  door,  entered,  and  handed 
me  a  card.  So  Gertrude  had  changed  her  mind ;  Gertrude 
had  come.  I  stared,  foolishly  blank,  at  the  card  between. 
my  fingers,  while  Miss  Goucher  by  perfect  stillness  effaced 
herself,  leaving  me  to  my  lack  of  thought. 

"Well,"  I  finally  muttered,  "sooner  or  later " 

Miss  Goucher,  perhaps  too  eagerly,  took  this  for  assent. 
' '  Shall  I  say  to  Mrs.  Hunt  that  you  are  coming  down  ? ' ' 

I  forced  a  smile,  fatuously  enough,  and  rose. 

"When  I'm  down  already?  Surely  you  can  see,  Miss 
Goucher,  that  I've  touched  the  bottom?"  Miss  Goucher 
did  not  reply.  "I'll  go  myself  at  once,"  I  added  formally. 
"Thank  you,  Miss  Goucher." 

Gertrude  was  waiting  in  the  small  Georgian  reception 
room,  whose  detailed  correctness  had  been  due  to  her  own ; 
waiting  without  any  vulgar  pretense  at  entire  composure. 
She  was  walking  slowly  about,  her  color  was  high,  and  it 
startled  me  to  find  her  so  little  altered.  Not  a  day  seemed 
to  have  added  itself ;  she  looked  under  thirty,  though  I 
knew  her  to  be  thirty-five;  she  was  even  handsomer  than 
I  had  chosen  to  remember.  Even  in  her  present  unusual 
restlessness,  the  old  distinction,  the  old  patrician  authority 
was  hers.  Her  spirit  imposed  itself,  as  always;  one  could 
take  Gertrude  only  as  she  wished  to  be  taken — seriously — • 
humbly  grateful  if  exempted  from  disdain.  Gertrude 
never  spoke  for  herself  alone ;  she  was  at  all  times  repre- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  99 

sentative — almost  symbolic.  Homage  met  in  her  not  a 
personal  gratitude,  but  the  approval  of  a  high,  unbroken 
tradition.  She  accepted  it  graciously,  without  obvious 
egotism,  not  as  due  to  her  as  a  temporal  being,  but  as  due — 
tinder  God — to  that  timeless  entity,  her  class.  I  am  not 
satirizing  Gertrude;  I  am  praising  her.  She,  more  than 
any  person  I  have  ever  known,  made  of  her  perishing  sub- 
stance the  temple  of  a  completely  realized  ideal. 

It  was,  I  am  forced  to  assume,  because  I  had  failed  in 
entire  respect  for  and  submission  to  this  ideal  that  she  had 
finally  abandoned  me.  It  was  not  so  much  incompatibility 
of  temperament  as  incompatibility  of  worship.  She  had 
removed  a  hallowed  shrine  from  a  felt  indifference  and 
a  possible  contamination.  That  was  all,  but  it  was  every- 
thing. And  as  I  walked  into  the  reception  room  I  saw  that 
the  shrine  was  still  beautiful,  faultlessly  tended,  and  ready 
for  any  absolute  but  dignified  sacrifice. 

"Gertrude,"  I  began,  "it's  splendid  of  you  to  overlook 
my  inexcusable  rudeness  of  yesterday !  I  'm  very  grateful. ' ' 

"I  have  not  forgiven  you,"  she  replied,  with  casual 
indignation — just  enough  for  sincerity  and  not  a  shade 
too  much  for  art.  "Don't  imagine  it's  pleasant  for  me  to 
be  here.  I  should  hardly  have  risked  your  misinterpreting 
it,  if  any  other  course  had  seemed  possible." 

"You  might  simply  have  waited,"  I  said.  "It  was  my 
intention  to  call  this  evening,  if  only  to  ask  after  your 
health." 

"I  could  not  have  received  you,"  said  Gertrude. 

"You  find  it  less  difficult  here?" 

"Less  humiliating.  I'm  not,  at  least,  receiving  a  hus- 
band who  wishes  to  plead  for  reconciliation — on  intoler- 
able grounds." 

"May  I  offer  you  a  chair?  Better  still — why  not  come 
to  the  study?  We're  so  much  less  likely  to  be  disturbed." 

She  accepted  my  suggestion  with  a  slight  nod,  and  her- 
self  led  the  way. 

"Now,  Gertrude,"  I  resumed,  when  she  had  consented 
to  an  easy-chair  and  had  permitted  me  to  close  the  door, 


100  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"whatever  the  situation  and  misunderstandings  between 
us,  can't  we  discuss  them" — and  I  ventured  a  smile — 
' '  more  informally,  in  a  freer  spirit  ? ' ' 

She  caught  me  up.  "Freer!  But  I  understand — less 
disciplined.  How  very  like  you,  Ambrose.  How  un- 
changed you  are." 

"And  you,  Gertrude!  It's  a  compliment  you  should 
easily  forgive." 

She  preferred  to  ignore  it. ' '  Miss  Blake, ' '  she  announced, 
"has  just  been  with  me  for  an  hour." 

She  waited  the  effect  of  this.  The  effect  was  consider- 
able, plunging  me  into  dark  amazement  and  conjecture. 
Not  daring  to  make  the  tiniest  guess  as  to  the  result  of  so 
fantastic  an  interview,  I  was  left  not  merely  tongue-tied 
but  brain-tied.  Gertrude  saw  at  once  that  she  had  beg- 
gared me  and  could  now  at  her  leisure  dole  out  the  equal 
humiliation  of  alms  withheld  or  bestowed. 

"Given  your  curious  social  astigmatism  and  her  curious 
mixed  charm — so  subtle  and  so  deeply  uncivilized — I  can 
see,  of  course,  why  she  has  bewitched  you,"  said  Gertrude 
reflectively,  and  paused.  "And  I  can  see,"  she  continued, 
musing,  as  if  she  had  adopted  the  stage  convention  of 
soliloquy,  "why  you  have  just  failed  to  capture  her  imagi- 
nation. For  you  have  failed — but  you  can  hardly  be 
aware  how  completely." 

"Whether  or  not  I'm  aware,"  I  snapped,  "seems  neg- 
ligible !  Susan  feels  she  must  leave  me,  and  she  '11  probably 
act  with  her  usual  promptness.  Is  that  what  she  called 
to  tell  you?" 

"Partly,"  acknowledged  Gertrude,  resuming  then  her 
soliloquy :  ' '  You  've  given  her — as  you  would — a  ridiculous 
education.  She  seems  to  have  instincts,  impulses,  which — 
all  things  considered — might  have  bloomed  if  cultivated. 
As  it  is,  you  found  her  crude,  and,  in  spite  of  all  the  cul- 
ture you've  crammed  upon  her,  you've  left  her  so.  She's 
emancipated — that  is,  public;  she's  thrown  away  the  locks 
and  keys  of  her  mind.  I  grant  she  has  one.  But  appar- 
ently no  one  has  even  suggested  to  her  that  the  essence 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  101 

of  being  rare,  of  being  fine,  is  knowing  what  to  omit,  what 
to  reject,  what  to  conceal.  I  find  my  own  people,  Ambrose 
— and  they  're  the  right,  people,  the  only  ones  worth  finding 
— by  feeling  secure  with  them ;  I  can  trust  them  not  to  go 
too  far.  They  have  decorum,  taste.  Oh,  I  admit  we're 
upholding  a  lost  cause!  You're  a  deserter  from  it — and 
Miss  Blake  doesn  't  even  suspect  its  existence.  Still ' ' — with 
a  private  smile — "her  crudity  had  certain  immediate 
advantages  this  morning." 

Ignoring  rarity,  fineness,  I  sank  to  the  indecorum  of  a 
frankly  human  grin.  "In  other  words,  Gertrude,  Susan 
omitted  so  little,  went  so  much  too  far,  that  she  actually 
forced  you  for  once  to  get  down  to  brass  tacks!" 

Gertrude  frowned.  "She  stripped  herself  naked  before 
a  stranger — if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"With  the  result,  Gertrude?" 

"Ah,  that's  why  I'm  here — as  a  duty  I  owe  myself.  I'm 
bound  to  say  my  suspicions  were  unjust — to  Miss  Blake, 
at  least.  I'll  even  go  beyond  that " 

' '  Careful,  Gertrude !  Evil  communications  corrupt  good 
manners. ' ' 

"Yes,"  she  responded  quickly,  rising,  "they  do — always; 
that's  why  I'm  not  here  to  stay.  But  all  I  have  left  for 
you,  Ambrose,  is  this:  I'm  convinced  now  that  in  one 
respect  I've  been  quite  wrong.  Miss  Blake  convinced  me 
this  morning  that  her  astounding  telegram  had  at  least  one 
merit.  It  happened  to  be  true.  I  should  either  live  with 
you  or  set  you  free.  I've  felt  this  myself,  from  time  to 
time,  but  divorce,  for  many  reasons  ..."  She  paused, 
then  added:  "However,  it  seems  inevitable.  If  you  wish 
to  divorce  me,  you  have  legal  grounds — desertion;  I  even 
advise  it,  and  I  shall  make  no  defense.  As  for  your  amaz- 
ing ward — make  your  mind  quite  easy  about  her.  If  any 
rumors  should  annoy  you,  they'll  not  come  from  me.  And 
I  shall  speak  to  Lucette."  She  moved  to  the  door,  opening 
it  slowly.  ' '  That 's  all,  I  think,  Ambrose  ? ' ' 

"It's  not  even  a  beginning,"  I  cried. 

"Think  of  it,  rather,  as  an  ending." 


102  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

11  Impossible !  I — I'm  abashed,  Gertrude!  "What  you 
propose  is  out  of  the  question.  Why  not  think  better  of 
returning  here?  The  heydey's  past  for  both  of  us.  My 
dream — always  a  wild  dream — is  passing ;  and  I  can  prom- 
ise sincere  understanding  and  respect." 

' '  I  could  not  promise  so  easily, ' '  said  Gertrude ;  ' '  nor  so 
much.  No ;  don 't  come  with  me, ' '  she  added.  ' '  I  know  my 
way  perfectly  well  alone. ' ' 

Nevertheless,  I  went  with  her  to  the  front  door,  as  I 
ought,  in  no  perfunctory  spirit.  It  was  more  than  a  cour- 
teous habit;  it  was  a  genuine  tribute  of  admiration.  I 
admired  her  beauty,  her  impeccable  bearing,  her  frock,  her 
furs,  her  intellect,  the  ease  and  distinction  of  her  triumph. 
She  left  me  crushed ;  yet  it  was  a  privilege  to  have  known 
her — to  have  wooed  her,  won  her,  lost  her;  and  now  to 
have  received  my  coup  de  grace  from  her  competent,  dis- 
dainful hands.  I  wished  her  well,  knowing  the  wish  super- 
fluous. In  this,  if  nothing  else,  she  resembled  Susan — 
she  did  not  need  me;  she  could  stand  alone.  It  was  her 
tragedy,  in  the  French  classic  manner,  that  she  must. 
"Would  it  also  in  another  manner,  in  a  deeper  and — I  can 
think  of  no  homelier  word — more  cosmic  sense,  prove  to  be 
Susan's? 

But  my  own  stuffy  problem  drama,  whether  tragic  or 
absurd,  had  now  reached  a  crisis  and  developed  its  final 
question :  How  in  the  absence  of  Susan  to  stand  at  all  ? 

XI 

From  her  interview  with  Gertrude,  Susan  went  straight 
on  to  Phil's  rooms,  not  even  stopping  to  consider  the  pos- 
sible proprieties  involved.  But,  five  minutes  before  her 
arrival,  Phil  had  been  summoned  to  the  Graduates  Club 
to  receive  a  long-distance  call  from  his  Boston  publisher; 
and  it  was  Jimmy  Kane  who  answered  her  knock  and 
opened  the  study  door.  He  had  been  in  conference  with 
Phil  on  his  private  problems  and  Phil  had  asked  him  to 
await  his  return.  All  this  he  thought  it  courteous  to  ex- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  103 

plain  to  the  peach  of  a  girl  before  him,  whose  presence  at 
the  door  puzzled  him  mightily,  and  whose  disturbing  eyes 
held  his,  he  thought,  rather  too  intimately  and  quizzically 
for  a  stranger's. 

She  could  hardly  be  some  graduate  student  in  philos- 
ophy ;  she  was  too  young  and  too  flossy  for  that.  ' '  Flossy, ' ' 
in  Jimmy's  economical  vocabulary,  was  a  symbol  for  many 
subtle  shades  of  meaning:  it  implied,  for  any  maiden  it 
fitted,  an  elegance  not  too  cold  to  be  alluring;  the  posses- 
sion of  that  something  more  than  the  peace  of  God  which  a 
friend  told  Emerson  always  entered  her  heart  when  she 
knew  herself  to  be  well  dressed.  Flossy — to  generalize — 
Jimmy  had  not  observed  the  women  graduate  students 
to  be,  though  he  bore  them  no  ill  will.  To  be  truly  flossy 
was,  after  all,  a  privilege  reserved  for  a  chosen  few,  born 
to  a  certain  circle  which  Jimmy  had  never  sought  to  pene- 
trate. 

One — and  a  curiously  entrancing  specimen — of  the 
chosen  evidently  stood  watching  him  now,  and  he  wished 
that  her  entire  self-possession  did  not  so  utterly  imperil 
his  own.  What  was  she  doing  alone,  anyway,  this  society 
girl — in  a  students'  rooming  house — at  Prof.  Farmer's 
door?  Why  couldn't  she  tell  him?  And  why  were  her 
eyes  making  fun  of  him — or  weren't  they?  His  fingers 
went  instinctively  to  his — perhaps  too  hastily  selected? — 
cravat. 

Then  Susan  really  did  laugh,  but  happily,  not  unkindly, 
and  walked  on  in  past  him,  shutting  the  door  behind  her 
as  she  came. 

"Jimmy  Kane,"  she  said,  "if  I  weren't  so  gorgeously 
glad  to  see  you  again,  I  could  beat  you  for  not  remem- 
bering!" 

"Good  Lord!  "he  babbled.  "Why— good  Lord!  You're 
Susan!" 

It  was  all  too  much  for  him;  concealment  was  impos- 
sible— he  was  flabbergasted.  Sparkling  with  sheer  delight 
at  his  gaucherie,  Susan  put  out  both  hands.  Her  impul- 
siveness instantly  revived  him;  he  seized  her  hands  for  a 


104  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

moment  as  he  might  have  gripped  a  long-lost  boy  friend's. 

"You  never  guessed  I  could  look  so — presentable,  did 
you?"  demanded  Susan. 

' '  Presentable ! ' '  The  word  jarred  on  him,  it  was  so  dully 
inadequate. 

"I  have  a  maid,"  continued  Susan  demurely.  "Every- 
thing in  Ambo  's  house — Ambo  is  my  guardian,  you  know ; 
Mr.  Hunt — well,  everything  in  his  house  is  a  work  of  art. 
So  he  pays  a  maid  to  see  that  I  am — always.  I  am  simply 
clay  in  her  hands,  and  it  does  make  a  difference.  But  I 
didn  't  have  a  maid  on  Birch  Street,  Jimmy. ' ' 

Jimmy 's  blue  eyes  capered.  This  was  American  humor — 
the  kind  he  was  born  to  and  could  understand.  Happiness 
and  ease  returned  with  it.  If  Susan  could  talk  like  that 
while  looking  like  that — well,  Susan  was  there!  She  was 
all  right. 

"Within  five  minutes  he  was  giving  her  a  brief,  comradely 
chronicle  of  the  missing  years,  and  when  Phil  got  back  it 
was  to  find  them  seated  together,  Susan  leaning  a  little 
forward  from  the  depths  of  a  Morris  chair  to  follow  more 
attentively  Jimmy's  minute  technical  description  of  the 
nature  of  the  steel  alloys  used  in  the  manufacture  of  auto- 
mobiles. 

They  rose  at  Phil's  entrance  with  a  mingling,  eager 
chatter  of  explanation.  Phil  later — much  later — admitted 
to  me  that  he  had  never  felt  till  that  moment  how  damna- 
bly he  was  past  forty,  and  how  fatally  Susan  was  not.  He 
further  admitted  that  it  was  far  from  the  most  agreeable 
discovery  of  a  studious  life. 

"What  do  you  think,  Prof.  Farmer,"  exclaimed  Jimmy, 
"of  our  meeting  again  accidentally  like  this — and  me  not 
knowing  Susan!  You  can't  beat  that  much  for  a  small 
world!" 

Phil  sought  Susan's  eye,  and  was  somewhat  relieved  by 
the  quizzical  though  delighted  gleam  in  it. 

"Well,  Jimmy,"  he  responded  gravely,  "truth  compels 
me  to  state  that  I  have  heard  of  stranger  encounters — less 
inevitable  ones,  at  least.  I  really  have." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  105 

"But  you  never  heard  of  a  nicer  one,"  said  Susan. 
"Haven't  I  always  told  you  and  Ambo  that  Jimmy  would 
be  like  this?" 

"Sort  of  foolish?"  grinned  Jimmy,  with  reawakening 
constraint.  "I'll  bet  you  have,  too." 

Susan  shook  her  head,  solemn  and  slow ;  but  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  meant  mischief. 

"No,  Jimmy,  not  foolish;  just — natural.  Just — sort 
of — you." 

At  this  point,  Jimmy  hastily  remembered  that  he  must 
beat  it,  pleading  what  Phil  knew  to  be  an  imaginary  recita- 
tion. But  he  did  not  escape  without  finding  himself  invited 
to  dinner  for  that  very  evening,  informally  of  course — 
Susan  suspected  the  absence  of  even  a  dinner  coat:  Phil 
would  bring  him.  It  was  really  Phil  who  accepted  for 
him,  while  Jimmy  was  still  muddling  through  his  thanks 
and  toiling  on  to  needless  apologies. 

"If  I've  been  too" — he  almost  said  "fresh,"  but  sank 
to — "familiar,  calling  you  by  your  first  name,  I  mean — 
I  wouldn't  like  you  to  think — but  coming  all  of  a  sudden 
like  this,  what  I  mean  is " 

"Oh,  run  along!"  called  Susan  gayly.  "Forget  it, 
Jimmy!  You're  spoiling  everything." 

"That's  what  I  m-mean,"  stammered  Jimmy,  and  was 
gone. 

"But  he  does  mean  well,  Susan,"  Phil  pleaded  for  him, 
after  closing  the  door. 

It  puzzled  him  to  note  that  Susan's  face  instantly 
clouded ;  there  was  reproof  in  her  tone.  ' '  That  was  patron- 
izing, Phil.  I  won 't  have  anybody  patronize  Jimmy.  He 's 
perfect." 

Phil  was  oddly  nettled  by  this  reproof  and  grew  stub- 
born and  detached.  "He's  a  nice  boy,  certainly;  and  has 
the  makings  of  a  real  man.  I  believe  in  him.  Still — heaven 
knows! — he's  not  precisely  a  subtle  soul." 

Susan's  brow  had  cleared  again.  "That's  what  I 
m-mean!"  she  laughed,  mimicking  Jimmy  without  satire, 
as  if  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  recollection.  "The  truth  is, 


106  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Phil,  I'm  rather  fed  up  on  subtlety — especially  my  own. 
Sometimes  I  think  it's  just  a  polite  term  for  futility,  with 
a  dash  of  intellectual  snobbishness  thrown  in.  It  must  be 
saner,  cleaner,  healthier,  to  take  life  straight." 

"And  now,  Phil  dear,"  she  said,  dismissing  the  matter, 
as  if  settling  back  solidly  to  earth  after  a  pleasantly  breath- 
less aerial  spin,  "I  need  your  advice.  Can  I  earn  my 
living  as  a  writer  ?  I  '11  write  anything  that  pays,  so  I  think 
I  can.  Fashion  notes — anything!  Sister  and  I" — "Sister" 
being  Susan's  pet  name  for  Miss  Goucher — "are  running 
away  to  New  York  on  Monday — to  make  our  fortunes. 
You  mustn  't  tell  Ambo — yet ;  I  '11  tell  him  in  my  own  way. 
And  I  must  make  my  own  way  now,  Phil.  I  've  been  a  lazy 
parasite  long  enough — too  long!  So  please  sit  down  and 
write  me  subtle  letters  of  introduction  to  any  publishers 
you  know.  Maltby  is  bound  to  help  me,  of  course.  You 
see,  I'm  feeling  ruthless — or  shameless;  I  shall  pull  every 
wire  in  sight.  So  I'm  counting  on  The  Garden  Exquisite 
for  immediate  bread  and  butter.  I  did  my  first  article  for 
it  in  an  hour  when  I  first  woke  up  this  morning — just  the 
smarty-party  piffle  its  readers  and  advertisers  seem  to  de- 
mand. 

"This  sort  of  thing,  Phil:  'The  poets  are  wrong,  as 
usual.  "Wild  flowers  are  not  shy  and  humble,  they  are 
exclusive.  How  to  know  them  is  still  a  social  problem  in 
American  life,  and  very  few  of  us  have  attained  this  aristo- 
cratic distinction.'  And  so  on!  Two  thousand  silly  sal- 
able words — and  I  can  turn  on  that  soda-water  tap  at  will. 
Are  you  listening?  Please  tell  me  you  don't  think  poor 
Sister — she  refuses  to  leave  me,  and  I  wouldn't  let  her  any- 
way— will  have  to  undergo  martyrdom  in  a  cheap  hall 
bedroom  for  the  rest  of  her  days?" 

Needless  to  say,  Phil  did  not  approve  of  Susan's  plan. 
He  agreed  with  her  that  under  the  given  conditions  she 
could  not  remain  with  me  in  New  Haven;  and  he  com- 
mended her  courage,  her  desire  for  independence.  But 
Susan  would  never,  he  felt,  find  her  true  pathway  to  inde- 
pendence, either  material  or  spiritual,  as  a  journalistic 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  107 

free-lance  in  New  York.  He  admitted  the  insatiable  pub- 
lie  thirst  for  soda-water,  but  saw  no  reason  why  Susan 
should  waste  herself  in  catering  to  it.  He  was  by  no  means 
certain  that  she  could  cater  to  it  if  she  would. 

"You'll  too  often  discover,"  he  warned  her,  "that  your 
tap  is  running  an  unmarketable  beverage.  The  mortal 
taste  for  nectar  is  still  undeveloped;  it  remains  the  drink 
of  the  gods." 

"But,"  Susan  objected,  "I  can't  let  Ambo  pay  my  bills 
from  now  on — I  can't!  And  Sister  and  I  must  live  de- 
cently somehow!  I'd  like  nothing  better  than  to  be  a 
perpetual  fountain  of  nectar — supposing,  you  nice  old 
Phil,  that  I've  ever  really  had  the  secret  of  distilling  a 
single  drop  of  it.  But  you  say  yourself  there's  no  market 
for  it  this  side  of  heaven,  which  is  where  we  all  happen  to 
be.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? " 

"Marry  me." 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you,  dear." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause. 

"Then,"  said  Phil  earnestly,  "I  want  you  to  let  Hunt — 
or  if  you  can't  bring  yourself  to  do  that — to  let  me  loan 
you  money  enough  from  time  to  time  to  live  on  simply  and 
comfortably  for  a  few  years,  while  you  study  and  think 
and  write  in  your  own  free  way — till  you've  found  your- 
self. My  nectar  simile  was  nonsense,  just  as  your  soda- 
water  tap  was.  You  have  brains  and  a  soul,  and  the 
combination  means  a  shining  career  of  some  kind — even  on 
earth.  Don't  fritter  your  genius  away  in  makeshift  activ- 
ities. Mankind  needs  the  best  we  have  in  us;  the  best's 
none  too  good.  It's  a  duty — no,  it's  more  than  that — it's  a 
true  religion  to  get  that  expressed  somehow — whether  in 
terms  of  action  or  thought  or  beauty.  I  know,  of  course, 
you  feel  this  as  I  do,  and  mean  to  win  through  to  it  in  the 
end.  But  why  handicap  yourself  so  cruelly  at  the  start  ? ' ' 

Phil  tells  me  that  Susan,  while  he  urged  this  upon  her, 
quietly  withdrew  and  did  not  return  for  some  little  time 
after  he  had  ceased  to  speak.  He  was  not  even  certain  she 
had  fully  heard  him  out  until  she  suddenly  leaned  to  him 


108  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

from  her  chair  and  gave  his  hand  an  affectionate,  grateful 
squeeze. 

"Yes,  Phil,"  she  said,  "it  is  a  religion — it's  perhaps 
the  only  religion  I  shall  ever  have.  But  for  that  very  rea- 
son I  must  accept  it  in  my  own  way.  And  I'm  sure — it's 
part  of  my  faith — that  any  coddling  now  will  do  me  more 
harm  that  good.  I  must  meet  the  struggle,  Phil — the  hand- 
to-hand  fight.  If  the  ordinary  bread-and-butter  conditions 
are  too  much  for  me,  then  I  'm  no  good  and  must  go  under. 
I  shan't  be  frittering  anything  away  if  I  fail.  I  shan't 
fail — in  our  sense — unless  we're  both  mistaken,  and  there 
isn't  anything  real  in  me.  That's  what  I  must  find  out 
first — not  sheltered  and  in  silence,  but  down  in  the  scrim- 
mage and  noise  of  it  all.  If  I'm  too  delicate  for  that,  then 
I  've  nothing  to  give  this  world,  and  the  sooner  I  'm  crushed 
out  of  it  the  better!  Believe  me,  Phil  dear,  I  know  I'm 
right;  I  know." 

She  was  pressing  clenched  hands  almost  fiercely  between 
her  girl 's  breasts  as  she  ended,  as  if  to  deny  or  repress  any 
natural  longing  for  a  special  protection,  a  special  gracious- 
ness  and  security,  from  our  common  taskmaster,  life. 

Phil  admits  that  he  wanted  to  whimper  like  a  homesick 
boy. 

xn 

Susan's  informal  dinner  for  Jimmy  that  evening  was 
not  really  a  success.  The  surface  of  the  water  sparkled 
from  time  to  time,  but  there  were  grim  undercurrents  and 
icy  depths.  Perhaps  it  was  not  so  bad  as  my  own  impres- 
sion of  it,  for  I  had  a  sullen  headache  pulsing  its  tiresome 
obbligato  above  a  dull  ground  base  of  despair.  Despair,  I 
am  forced  to  call  it.  Never  had  life  seemed  to  me  so  little 
worth  the  trouble  of  going  on ;  and  I  fancy  Phil 's  reasoned 
conviction  of  its  eternal  dignity  and  import  had  become, 
for  the  present,  less  of  a  comfort  to  him  than  a  curse. 
Moods  of  this  kind,  however  ruthlessly  kept  under,  infect 
the  very  air  about  them.  They  exude  a  drab  fog  to  deaden 
spontaneity  and  choke  laughter  at  its  source. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  109 

Neither  Phil  nor  I  was  guilty  of  deliberate  sulking; 
whether  from  false  pride  or  native  virtue  we  did  our  best 
— hut  our  best  was  abysmal.  Even  Susan  sank  under  it  to 
the  flat  levels  of  made  conversation,  and  poor  Jimmy — who 
had  brought  with  him  many  social  misgivings — was 
stricken  at  table  with  a  muscular  rigor ;  sat  stiffly,  handled 
his  implements  jerkily,  and  ended  by  oversetting  a  glass 
of  claret  and  blushing  till  the  dusky  red  of  his  face 
matched  the  spreading  stain  before  him. 

At  this  crisis  of  gloom,  luckily,  Susan  struggled  clear 
of  the  drab  fog  and  saved  the  remnant  of  the  evening — 
at  least  for  Jimmy,  plunging  with  the  happiest  effect  into 
the  junior  annals  of  Birch  Street,  till  our  heavier  Hillhouse 
atmosphere  stirred  and  lightened  with  Don'fryou-remem- 
ber's  and  Sure-1-do's.  And  shortly  after  dinner,  Phil, 
tactfully  pleading  an  unprepared  lecture,  dragged  Jimmy 
off  with  him  before  this  bright  flare-up  of  youthful  remi- 
niscence had  even  threatened  to  expire.  Their  going 
brought  Susan  at  once  to  my  side,  with  a  stricken  face  of 
self-reproach. 

' '  It  was  so  stupid  of  me,  Ambo — this  dinner.  I  've  never 
been  more  ashamed.  How  could  I  have  forced  it  on  you 
to-night !  But  you  were  wonderful,  dear — wonderful !  So 
was  Phil.  I'll  never  forget  it."  There  were  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "Oh,  Ambo,"  she  wailed,  "do  you  think  I  shall 
ever  learn  to  be  a  little  like  either  of  you?  I  feel — abject." 
Before  I  could  prevent  it,  she  had  seized  my  hand  in  both 
hers  and  kissed  it.  "Homage,"  she  smiled.  .  .  . 

It  broke  me  down — utterly.  .  .  .  You  will  spare  me  any 
description  of  the  next  ten  minutes  of  childishness.  In- 
deed, you  must  spare  me  the  details  of  our  later  under- 
standing; they  are  inviolable.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  I 
emerged  from  it — for  the  experience  had  been  overwhelm- 
ing— with  a  new  spirit,  a  clarified  and  serener  mind.  My 
love  for  Susan  was  unchanged — yet  wholly  changed.  The 
paradox  is  exact.  Life  once  more  seemed  to  me  good,  since 
she  was  part  of  it ;  and  my  own  life  rich,  since  I  now  knew 
how  truly  it  had  become  a  portion  of  hers.  She  had  made 


110  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

me  feel,  know,  that  I  counted  for  her — unworthy  as  I  am — 
in  all  she  had  grown  to  be  and  would  grow  to  be.  "We  liad 
shaped  and  would  always  shape  each  other's  lives.  There 
for  the  moment  it  rested.  She  would  leave  me,  but  I  was 
not  to  be  alone. 

No;  I  was  not  to  be  alone.  For  even  if  she  had  died, 
or  had  quite  changed  and  forsaken  me,  there  would  be 
memories — such  as  few  men  have  been  privileged  to 
recall.  .  .  . 

INTERLUDE 

On  the  rearward  and  gentler  slopes  of  Mount  Carmel, 
a  rough,  isolated  little  mountain,  very  abrupt  on  its  south- 
erly face,  which  rises  six  or  seven  miles  up-country  from 
the  New  Haven  Green,  there  is  an  ancient  farm,  so  long 
abandoned  as  to  be  completely  overgrown  with  gray  birch 
— the  old  field  birch  of  exhausted  soils — with  dogwood  and 
an  aromatic  tangle  of  humbler  shrubs,  high-bush  huckle- 
berry and  laurel  and  sweet  fern;  while  beneath  these  the 
dry  elastic  earth-floor  is  a  deep  couch  of  ghost-gray  moss, 
shining  checkerberry  and  graceful  ground  pine.  The 
tumbledown  farmstead  itself  lies  either  unseen  at  some 
distance  from  these  abandoned  fields  or  has  wholly  dis- 
appeared along  with  the  neat  stone  fences  that  must  once 
have  marked  them.  Yet  the  boundaries  of  the  fields  are 
now  majestically  defined  through  the  undergrowth  by  rows 
of  gigantic  red  cedars  so  thickset,  so  tall,  shapely,  and 
dense  as  to  resemble  the  secular  cypresses  of  Italian 
gardens  more  nearly  than  the  poor  relations  they  ordi- 
narily are. 

And  at  the  upper  edge  of  one  steep-lying  field,  formerly 
an  apple  orchard — though  but  three  or  four  of  the  original 
apple  trees  remain,  hopelessly  decrepit  and  half  buried  in 
the  new  growth — the  older  cedars  of  the  fence  line  have 
seeded  capriciously  and  have  thrown  out  an  almost  perfect 
circle  of  younger,  slenderer  trees  which,  standing  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  inclose  the  happiest  retreat  for  woodland  god 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  111 

or  dreaming  mortal  that  the  most  exacting  faun  or  poet 
could  desire. 

That  Susan  should  have  happened  upon  this  lonely,  this 
magic  circle,  I  can  never  regard  as  a  mere  accident. 
Obviously  time  had  slowly  and  lovingly  formed  and  per- 
fected it  for  some  purpose ;  it  was  there  waiting  for  her — 
and  one  day  she  came  and  possessed  it,  and  the  magic  circle 
was  complete. 

Susan  was  then  seventeen  and  the  season,  as  it  should 
have  been,  was  early  May.  Much  of  the  hill  country  lying 
northward  from  the  Connecticut  coast  towns  is  surpris- 
ingly wild,  and  none  of  it  wilder  or  lovelier  than  certain 
tracts  spread  within  easy  reach  of  the  few  New  Haveners 
who  have  not  wholly  capitulated  to  business  or  college 
politics  or  golf  or  social  service  or  the  movies,  forget- 
ting a  deeper  and  saner  lure.  A  later  Wordsworth  or 
Thoreau  might  still  live  in  midmost  New  Haven  and  never 
feel  shut  from  his  heritage,  for  it  neighbors  him  closely 
—swamp  and  upland,  hemlock  cliff  and  hardwood  forest, 
precipitous  brook  or  slow-winding  meadow  stream,  where 
the  red- winged  blackbirds  flute  and  flash  by;  the  whole 
year's  wonder  awaits  him;  he  has  but  to  go  forth — alone. 

Nature  never  did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her,  though 
she  so  ironically  betrays  most  of  us  who  merely  pretend 
to  love  her,  because  we  feel,  after  due  instruction,  that  we 
ought.  For  Nature  is  not  easily  communicative,  nor 
lightly  wooed.  She  demands  a  higher  devotion  than  an 
occasional  picnic,  and  will  seldom  have  much  to  say  to  you 
if  she  feels  that  you  secretly  prefer  another  society  to  hers. 
To  her  elect  she  whispers,  timelessly,  and  Susan,  in  her 
own  way,  was  of  the  elect.  It  was  the  way — the  surest — 
of  solitary  communion;  but  it  was  very  little,  very  cas- 
ually, the  way  of  science.  She  observed  much,  but  without 
method ;  and  catalogued  not  at  all.  She  never  counted  her 
warblers  and  seldom  named  them — but  she  loved  them,  as 
they  slipped  northward  through  young  leaves,  shyly,  with 
pure  flashes  of  green  or  russet  or  gold. 

Nature  for  Susan,  in  short,  was  all  mood,  ranging  from 


112  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

cold  horror  to  supernal  beauty ;  she  did  not  sentimentalize 
the  gradations.  The  cold  horror  was  there  and  chilled  her, 
but  the  supernal  beauty  was  there  too — and  did  not  leave 
her  cold.  And  through  it  all  streamed  an  indefinable  awe, 
a  trail  one  could  not  follow,  a  teasing  mystery — an 
unspoken  word.  It  was  back  of — no  rather  it  interpene- 
trated the  horror  no  less  than  the  beauty;  they  were  but 
phases,  hints,  of  that  other,  that  suspected,  eerie  trail, 
leading  one  knew  not  where. 

But  surely  there,  in  that  magic  circle,  one  might  press 
closer,  draw  oneself  nearer,  catch  at  the  faintest  hint 
toward  a  possible  clue?  The  aromatic  space  within  the 
cedars  became  Susan's  refuge,  her  nook  from  the  world, 
her  Port-Royal,  her  Walden,  her  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree. 
Once  found  that  spring  she  never  spoke  of  it ;  she  hoarded 
her  treasure,  slipping  off  to  it  stealthily,  through  slyest 
subterfuge  or  evasion,  whenever  she  could.  For  was  it  not 
hers? 

Sometimes  she  rode  out  there,  tying  her  horse  to  a  tree 
in  the  lowest  field  back  of  a  great  thicket  of  old-fashioned 
lilac  bushes  run  wild,  where  he  was  completely  hidden  from 
the  rare  passers-by  of  the  rough  up-country  road  or  lane. 
But  oftenest,  she  has  since  confessed,  she  would  clear  her 
morning  or  afternoon  by  some  plausible  excuse  for  absence, 
then  board  the  Waterbury  trolley  express,  descending  from 
it  about  two  miles  from  her  nook,  and  walking  or  rather 
climbing  up  to  it  crosslots  through  neglected  woodland  and 
uncropped  pasture  reverting  to  the  savage. 

At  one  point  she  had  to  pass  a  small  swampy  meadow 
through  which  a  mere  thread  of  stream  worked  its  way, 
half -choked  by  thick-springing  blades  of  our  native  wild 
iris;  so  infinitely,  so  capriciously  delicate  in  form  and  hue. 
And  here,  if  these  were  in  bloom,  she  always  lingered  a 
while,  poised  on  the  harsh  hummocks  of  bent-grass,  herself 
slender  as  a  reed.  The  pale,  softly  pencilled  iris  petals 
stirred  in  her  a  high  wonder  beyond  speech.  What 
supreme,  whimsical  artistry  brought  them  to  being  there, 
in  that  lonely  spot;  and  for  whose  joy?  No  human  hand, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  113 

cunning  with  enamel  and  platinum  and  treated  silver, 
could,  after  a  lifetime  of  patience,  reproduce  one  petal  of 
these  uncounted  flowers.  Out  of  the  muck  they  lifted, 
ethereal,  unearthly — yet  so  soon  to  die.  .  .  . 

Oh,  she  knew  what  the  learned  had  to  say  of  them! — 
that  they  were  merely  sexual  devices;  painted  deceptions 
for  attracting  insects  and  so  assuring  cross-pollination  and 
the  lusty  continuance  of  their  race.  So  far  as  it  went  this 
was  unquestionably  true;  but  it  went — just  how  far? 
Their  color  and  secret  manna  attracted  the  necessary  in- 
sects, which  they  fed ;  the  form  of  their  petals  and  perianth 
tubes,  and  the  arrangement  of  their  organs  of  sex  were 
cunningly  evolved,  so  that  the  insect  that  sought  their 
nectar  bore  from  one  flower  to  the  next  its  fertilizing 
golden  dust 

Astonishing,  certainly!  But  what  astonished  her  far 
more  was  that  all  this  ingenious  mechanism  should  in  any 
way  affect  her!  It  was  obviously  none  of  her  affair;  and 
yet  to  come  upon  these  cunning  mechanistic  devices  in  this 
deserted  field  stirred  her,  set  something  ineffable  free  in 
her — gave  it  joy  for  wings.  It  was  as  if  these  pale  blooms 
of  wild  iris  had  been  for  her,  in  a  less  mortal  sense,  what 
the  unconscious  insects  were  for  them — intermediaries, 
whose  more  ethereal  contacts  cross-fertilized  her  very  soul. 
But  she  could  not  define  for  herself  or  express  for  others 
what  they  did  to  her.  Of  one  thing  only  she  was  certain : 
These  fleeting  moments  of  expansion,  of  illumination,  were 
brief  and  vague — moments  of  pure,  uncritical  feeling — but 
they  were  the  best  moments  of  her  life ;  and  they  were  real. 
They  vanished,  but  not  wholly.  They  left  lasting  traces. 
Never  to  have  been  visited  by  them  would  have  condemned 
her,  she  knew,  to  be  less  than  her  fullest  self,  narrower  in 
sympathy,  more  rigid,  more  dogmatic,  and  less  complete. 

But  that  first  May  day  of  her  discovery,  when  called  out 
to  wander  lonely  as  a  cloud  by  the  spirit  of  spring — the 
day  she  had  happened  on  her  magic  circle, — all  that  rough 
upland  world  was  burgeoning,  and  the  beauty  of  those 
deserted  fields  hurt  the  heart.  Susan  never  easily  wept, 


114 

but  that  day — safely  hidden  in  the  magic  circle,  then  newly 
hers — she  threw  herself  down  on  the  ghost-gray  inoss 
among  the  spicy  tufts  of  sweet  fern  and  enjoyed,  as  she 
later  told  me,  the  most  sensuously  abandoned  good  cry  of 
her  life.  The  dogwood  trees  were  a  glory  of  flushed  white 
about  her,  shining  in  on  every  hand  through  the  black- 
green  cedars,  as  if  the  stars  had  rushed  forward  toward 
earth  and  clustered  more  thickly  in  a  nearer  midnight  sky. 
Life  had  no  right  to  be  so  overwhelmingly  fair — if  these 
poignant  gusts  of  beauty  gave  no  sanction  to  all  that  the 
bruised  heart  of  man  might  long  for  of  peace  and  joy! 
If  life  must  be  accepted  as  an  idiot's  tale,  signifying  noth- 
ing, then  it  was  a  refinement  of  that  torture  that  it  could 
suddenly  lift — as  a  sterile  wave  lifts  only  to  break — to  such 
dizzying,  ecstatic  heights.  .  .  .  No,  no — it  was  impossible! 
It  was  unthinkable !  It  was  absurd ! 

That  year  we  spent  July,  August,  and  early  September 
in  France,  but  late  September  found  us  back  in  New  Haven 
for  those  autumnal  weeks  which  are  the  golden,  heady  wine 
of  our  New  England  cycle.  Praise  of  the  New  England 
October,  for  those  who  have  experienced  it,  must  always 
seem  futile,  and  for  those  who  have  not,  exaggerated  and 
false.  Summer  does  not  decay  in  New  England;  it  first 
smoulders  and  then  flares  out  in  a  clear  multicolored  glory 
of  flame;  it  does  not  sicken  to  corruption,  it  shouts  and 
sings  and  is  transfigured.  I  had  suggested  to  Susan,  there- 
fore, a  flight  to  higher  hills — to  the  Berkshires,  to  be  pre- 
cise— where  we  might  more  spaciously  watch  these  smoke- 
less frost-fires  flicker  up,  spread,  consume  themselves,  and 
at  last  leap  from  the  crests,  to  vanish  rather  than  die.  But 
Susan,  pleading  a  desire  to  settle  down  after  much  wander- 
ing, begged  off.  She  did  not  tell  me  that  she  had  a  private 
sanctuary,  too  long  unvisited,  hidden  among  nearer  and 
humbler  hills. 

The  rough  fields  of  the  old  farm  were  now  rich  with 
crimson  and  gold — -bright  yellow  gold,  red  gold,  green  and 
tarnished  gold — or  misted  over  with  the  horizon  ^blue  of 
wild  asters,  a  needed  softening  of  tone  in  a  world  else  so 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  115 

vibrant  with  light,  so  nakedly  clear.  This  was  another  and 
perhaps  even  a  deeper  intoxication  than  that  of  the  flood 
tide  of  spring.  Unbearably  beautiful  it  grew  at  its  climax 
of  splendor!  An  unseen  organist  unloosed  all  his  stops, 
and  Susan,  like  a  little  child  overpowered  by  that  rocking 
clamor,  was  shaken  by  it  and  almost  whimpered  for 
mercy.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  until  the  following  spring  that  chance  im- 
probably betrayed  her  guarded  secret  to  me.  All  during 
the  preceding  fall  I  had  wondered  at  times  that  I  found 
it  so  increasingly  difficult  to  arrange  for  afternoons  of 
tennis  or  golf  or  riding  with  Susan;  but  I  admonished 
myself  that  as  she  grew  up  she  must  inevitably  find  per- 
sonal interests  and  younger  friends,  and  it  was  not  for  me 
to  limit  or  question  her  freedom.  And  though  Susan  never 
lied  to  me,  she  was  clever  enough,  and  woman  enough,  to 
let  me  mislead  myself. 

"I've  been  taking  a  long  walk,  Ambo."  "I've  been 
riding." 

Well,  bless  her,  so  she  had — and  why  shouldn't  she? 
Though  it  came  at  last  with  me  to  a  vague,  comfortless 
feeling  of  shut-outness — of  too  often  missing  an  undefined 
something  that  I  had  hoped  to  share. 

During  a  long  winter  of  close  companionship  in  study 
and  socially  unsocial  life  this  feeling  disappeared,  but  with 
the  spring  it  gradually  formed  again,  like  a  little  spread- 
ing cloud  in  an  empty  sky.  And  one  afternoon,  toward 
middle  May,  I  discovered  myself  to  be  unaccountably  alone 
and  wishing  Susan  were  round — so  we  could  "do  some- 
thing." The  day  was  a  day  apart.  Mummies  that  day,  in 
dim  museums,  ached  in  their  cerements.  Middle-aged  bank 
clerks  behind  grilles  knew  a  sudden  unrest,  and  one  or  two 
of  them  even  wondered  whether  to  be  always  honestly 
handling  the  false  counters  of  life  were  any  compensation 
for  never  having  riotously  lived.  Little  boys  along  Hill- 
house  Avenue,  ordinarily  well-behaved,  turned  freakishly 
truculent,  delighted  in  combat,  and  pummelled  each  other 
with  ineffective  fists.  Settled  professors  in  classrooms  were 


116  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

seized  with  irrelevant  fancies  and,  while  trying  to  recover 
some  dropped  thread  of  discourse,  openly  sighed — haunted 
by  visions  of  the  phoebe  bird's  nest  found  under  the  old 
bridge  by  the  mill  dam,  or  of  the  long-forgotten  hazel  eyes 
of  some  twelve-year-old  sweetheart.  A  rebellious  day — 
and  a  sentimental!  [See  Lord  Tennyson,  and  the  poets, 
passim.]  The  apple  trees  must  be  in  full  bloom.  .  .  . 

Well  then,  confound  it,  why  had  Susan  gone  to  a  public 
lecture  on  Masefield?  Or  had  she  merely  mentioned  at 
lunch  that  there  was  a  public  lecture  on  Masefield?  Oh, 
damn  it!  One  can't  stay  indoors  on  such  a  day! 

Susan  and  I  kept  our  saddle  horses  at  the  local  riding 
academy,  where  they  were  well  cared  for  and  exercised  on 
the  many  days  when  we  couldn't  or  did  not  wish  to  take 
them  out.  As  the  academy  was  convenient  and  had  good 
locker  rooms  and  showers,  we  always  preferred  changing 
there  instead  of  dressing  at  home  and  having  the  horses 
sent  round.  Riding  is  not  one  of  my  passions,  and  oddly 
enough  is  not  one  of  Susan's.  That  intense  sympathy 
which  unites  some  men  and  women  to  horses,  and  others 
to  dogs  or  cats,  is  either  born  in  one  or  it  is  not.  Susan 
felt  it  very  strongly  for  both  dogs  and  cats,  and  if  I  have 
failed  to  mention  Tumps  and  Togo,  that  is  a  lack  in  myself, 
not  in  her.  I  don 't  dislike  dogs  or  cats  or,  for  that  matter, 
well-broken  horses,  but — though  I  lose  your  last  shreds  of 
sympathy — they  all,  in  comparison  with  other  interests, 
leave  me  more  than  usual  calm.  Of  Tumps  and  Togo, 
nevertheless,  something  must  yet  be  said,  though  too  late 
for  their  place  in  Susan's  heart;  or  indeed,  for  their  own 
deserving.  But  they  are  already  an  intrusion  here. 

For  Alma,  her  dainty  little  single  footer,  Susan 's  feeling 
was  rather  admiration  than  love.  Just  as  there  are  poets 
whose  songs  we  praise,  but  whose  genius  does  not  seem  to 
knit  itself  into  the  very  fabric  of  our  being,  so  it  was  with 
Alma  and  Susan.  She  said  and  thought  nothing  but  good 
of  Alma,  yet  never  felt  lonely  away  from  her — the  infalli- 
ble test.  As  for  Jessica,  my  own  modest  nag,  I  fear  she 
was  very  little  more  to  me  than  an  agreeably  paced  induce- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  117 

ment  to  exercise,  and  I  fear  I  was  little  more  to  her  than 
a  possible  source  of  lump  sugar  and  a  not-too-fretful  hand 
on  the  bridle  reins.  To-day,  however,  I  needed  her  as  a 
more  poetic  motor;  failing  Susan's  companionship,  I 
wanted  to  be  carried  far  out  into  country  byways  apart 
from  merely  mechanical  motors  or — ditto — men. 

Jessica,  well  up  to  it,  offered  no  objections  to  the  plan, 
and  we  were  soon  trotting  briskly  along  the  aerial  Ridge 
Koad,  from  which  we  at  length  descended  to  the  dark  east- 
ern flank  of  Mount  Carmel.  It  would  mean  a  long  pull 
to  go  right  round  the  mountain  by  the  steep  back  road,  and 
I  had  at  first  no  thought  of  attempting  it;  but  the  swift 
remembrance  of  a  vast  cherry  orchard  bordering  that  road 
made  me  wonder  whether  its  blossoms  had  yet  fallen. 
When  I  determined  finally  to  push  on,  poor  Jessica's 
earlier  fire  had  cooled;  we  climbed  the  rough  back  road 
as  a  slug  moves ;  the  cherry  orchard  proved  disappointing ; 
and  the  sun  was  barely  two  hours  from  the  hills  when  we 
crossed  the  divide  and  turned  south  down  a  grass-grown 
wood  road  that  I  had  never  before  traveled.  I  hoped,  and 
no  doubt  Jessica  hoped,  it  might  prove  a  shorter  cut  home. 

What  it  did  prove  was  so  fresh  an  enchantment  of  young 
leaf  and  flashing  wing,  that  I  soon  ceased  to  care  where  it 
led  or  how  late  I  might  be  for  dinner.  Then  a  sharp  dip 
in  the  road  brought  a  new  vision  of  delight;  dogwood — 
cloudy  masses  of  pink  dogwood,  the  largest,  deepest-tinted 
trees  of  it  I  had  ever  seen!  It  caught  at  my  throat;  and 
I  reined  in  Jessica,  whose  aesthetic  sense  was  less  developed, 
and  stared.  But  presently  the  spell  was  broken.  An  unseen 
horse  squealed,  evidently  from  behind  a  great  lilac  thicket 
in  an  old  field  at  the  left,  and  Jessica  squealed  back,  in- 
stantly alert  and  restive.  The  sharp  whinnying  was 
repeated,  and  Jessica's  dancing  excitement  grew  intense; 
then  there  was  a  scuffling  commotion  back  of  the  lilacs  and 
to  my  final  astonishment  Susan 's  little  mare,  Alma,  having 
broken  her  headstall  and  wrenched  herself  free  of  bit  and 
bridle,  came  trotting  amicably  forth  to  join  her  old  friend* 


118  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

— which  she  could  easily  do,  as  the  ancient  cattle  bars  at 
the  field-gate  had  long  since  rotted  away. 

It  was  unmistakably  dainty  Alma  with  her  white  fore- 
head star — but  where  was  her  mistress?  A  finger  of  ice 
drew  slowly  along  my  spine  as  I  urged  Jessica  into  the 
field  and  round  the  lilac  thicket.  Alma  meekly  followed 
us,  softly  breathing  encouragement  through  pink  nostrils, 
and  my  alarm  quieted  when  I  found  nothing  more  dread- 
ful than  the  broken  bridle  still  dangling  from  the  branch 
of  a  dead  cedar.  It  was  plain  that  Susan  had  tied  Alma 
there  to  explore  on  foot  through  the  higher  fields;  it  was 
plain,  too,  that  she  must  have  preferred  to  ride  out  here 
plone,  and  had  been  at  some  pains  to  conceal  her  purpose. 

For  a  second,  so  piqued  was  I,  I  almost  decided  to  ride 
on  and  leave  the  willful  child  to  her  own  devices.  But  the 
broken  bridle  shamed  me.  I  dismounted  to  examine  it;  it 
could  be  held  together  safely  enough  for  the  return,  I  saw, 
with  a  piece  of  stout  twine,  and  there  was  certain  to  be  a 
habitation  with  a  piece  of  stout  twine  in  it  on  down  the 
road  somewhere.  Susan  must  have  come  that  way  and 
could  tell  me.  But  I  must  find  her  first.  .  .  . 

"Susan!"  I  called.    "Oh-ho-o-o!    Soo-san!" 

No  answer.  I  called  again — vainly.  Nothing  for  it, 
then,  but  a  search !  I  tethered  Jessica  to  the  cedar  stump, 
convinced  that  Alma  wouldn't  wander  far  from  her  old 
friend,  and  started  off  through  the  field  past  a  senile  apple 
tree  bearing  a  few  scattered  blossoms,  beyond  which  a 
faintly  suggested  path  seemed  to  lead  upward  through  a 
wonder-grove  of  the  pink  dogwood,  mingled  with  laurel 
and  birch  and  towering  cedars.  That  path,  I  knew,  would 
have  tempted  Susan. 

What  there  was  of  it  soon  disappeared  altogether  in  an 
under-thicket  of  high-bush  huckleberry,  taller  than  a  man 's 
head.  Through  this  I  was  pushing  my  way,  and  had 
stooped  to  win  past  some  briers  and  protect  my  eyes — when 
I  felt  a  silk  scarf  slip  across  them,  muffling  my  face. 

It  was  swiftly  knotted  from  behind ;  then  my  hand  was 
taken,  and  Susan's  voice — on  a  tone  of  blended  mischief 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  119 

and  mystery — quavered  at  my  ear:     "Hush!     Profane 
mortal — speak  not!    This  is  holy  ground." 

With  not  another  word  spoken  she  drew  me  after  her, 
guiding  me  to  freer  air  and  supporting  me  when  I  stum- 
bled. We  continued  thus  for  some  moments,  on  my  part 
clumsily  enough;  and  then  Susan  halted  me,  and  turned 
me  solemnly  round  three  times,  while  she  crooned  in  a 
weird  gypsy-like  singsong  the  following  incantation: 

Cedar,  cedar,  birch  and  fern, 
Turn  his  wits  as  mine  you  turn. 

If  he  sees  what  now  I  see 
Welcome  shall  this  mortal  be. 

If  he  sees  it  not,  I'll  say 
Crick-crack  and  vanish  May! 

But  I  must  have  seen!  My  initiation  was  pronounced 
successful.  From  that  hour  all  veils  were  withdrawn,  and 
I  was  made  free  of  the  magic  circle.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  dip  in  Lethe.  Dinner  was  forgotten — the  long 
miles  home  and  the  broken  bridle.  A  powerful  enchant- 
ment had  done  its  work.  For  me,  only  the  poised  moment 
of  joy  was  real.  Nothing  else  mattered,  nothing  else 
existed,  while  that  poised  fragile  moment  was  mine.  We 
talked  or  were  silent — it  was  all  one.  And  when  dusk 
crept  in,  and  a  grateful  wood-thrush  praised  it,  we  still 
lingered  to  join  in  that  praise.  .  .  .  Then  a  whippoorwill 
began  to  call  insistently,  grievously,  from  very  far  off.  It 
was  the  whippoorwill  that  shattered  my  poised  crystal 
moment  of  perfect  joy. 

"Those  poor  horses/'  I  said. 

"Oh!"  cried  Susan,  springing  up,  "how  could  we  let 
them  starve!  I'm  starved,  too,  Ambo — aren't  you?  What 
sillies  we  are!" 

We  got  home  safely,  after  some  trifling  difficulties,  past 
ten  o'clock,  , 


120  THE  BOOK  OP  SUSAN 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered 

The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead 

Only  it  doesn't,  always — thank  God!  Memories.  .  .  . 
And  this  was  but  one.  Oh,  no;  I  was  not  to  be  alone.  I 
should  never  really  be  alone.  .  .  . 


xra 

The  morning  after  Jimmy  had  dined  with  us,  Susan, 
at  my  request,  brought  Miss  Goucher  to  my  study,  and 
we  had  a  good  long  talk  together.  And  first  of  all  the  prob- 
lem of  Gertrude  loomed  before  us,  starting  up  ghostlike 
at  a  chance  remark,  and  then  barring  all  progress  with 
more  practical  considerations,  till  laid.  Neither  Susan's 
telegram  nor  her  private  interview  with  Gertrude  had  been 
discussed  between  us ;  I  had  nervously  shied  off  from  both 
matters  in  my  dread  of  seeming  to  question  Susan's 
motives.  But  now  Susan  herself,  to  put  it  crudely,  insisted 
on  a  show-down. 

' '  The  air  needed  clearing,  Ambo,  and  I  sent  the  telegram 
hoping  to  clear  it  by  raising  a  storm.  But,  as  Sister  re- 
minded me  at  breakfast,  storms  don't  always  clear  the  air 
— even  good  hard  ones;  they  sometimes  leave  it  heavier 
than  ever.  I'm  afraid  that's  what  my  storm  has  done. 
Has  it,  Ambo?  What  happened  when  Mrs.  Hunt  came  to 
see  you  here?  But  perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you  first  what 
happened  between  us  ? " 

' '  No, ' '  I  smiled ;  ' '  Gertrude  made  that  fairly  plain,  for 
once.  And  your  storm  did  sweep  off  the  worst  of  the  fog! 
You  see,  Gertrude  has,  intensely,  the  virtues  of  her  defects 
— a  fastidious  sense  of  honor  among  them.  Once  she  felt 
her  suspicions  unjust,  she  was  bound  to  acknowledge  it.  I 
can 't  say  you  won  a  friend,  but  you  did — by  some  miracle 
— placate  a  dangerous  foe." 

"Is  she  coming  back  to  you,  Ambo?" 

"No.  She  suggests  divorce.  But  that  of  course  is  impos- 
sible!" 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  121 

"Why?" 

"Is  it  kind  to  ask?"  said  Miss  Goucher.  "And — forgive 
me,  dear — after  your  decision,  is  it  necessary  for  you  to 
know?" 

Susan  reflected  anxiously.  "No,"  she  finally  responded, 
"it  isn't  kind;  but  it  is  necessary.  I'll  tell  you  why, 
Ambo.  If  you  had  been  free,  I  think  there's  no  doubt  I 
should  have  married  you.  Oh,  I  know,  dear,  it  sounds  cold- 
blooded like  that !  But  the  point  is,  I  shouldn  't  then  have 
questioned  things  as  I  do  now.  My  feeling  for  you — your 
need  of  me — they  wouldn't  have  been  put  to  the  test.  Now 
they  have  been — or  rather,  they  're  being  tested,  every  min- 
ute of  every  hour.  Suppose  I  should  ask  you  now — meaning 
every  word  of  it — to  divorce  Mrs.  Hunt  so  you  could  marry 
me?  At  least  you'd  know  then,  wouldn't  you,  that  simply 
being  yours  meant  more  to  me  than  anything  else  in  life? 
Or  suppose  I  couldn  't  bring  myself  to  ask  it,  but  couldn  't 
face  life  without  you?  Suppose  I  drowned  myself " 

"Good  God,  dear!" 

"I'm  not  going  to,  Ambo — and  what's  equally  impor- 
tant, neither  are  you.  Why,  you  don't  even  pause  over 
Mrs.  Hunt's  suggestion!  You  don't  even  wait  to  ask  my 
opinion!  You  say  at  once — it's  impossible!  That  proves 
something,  doesn't  it — about  you  and  me?  It  either  proves 
we're  not  half  so  much  in  love  as  we  think  we  are,  or  else 
that  love  isn  't  for  either  of  us  the  only  good  thing  in  life — 
the  whole  show."  She  paused,  but  added:  "Why  can't 
you  consider  divorcing  Mrs.  Hunt,  Ambo?  After  all,  she 
isn't  honestly  your  wife  and  doesn't  want  to  be;  it  would 
only  be  common  fairness  to  yourself." 

Miss  Goucher  stirred  uneasily  in  her  chair.  I  stirred 
uneasily  in  mine. 

"There  are  so  many  reasons,"  I  fumbled.  "I  suppose 
at  bottom  it  comes  to  this — a  queer  feeling  of  responsi- 
bility, of  guilt  even.  ..." 

* '  Nonsense ! ' '  cried  Susan.  ' '  You  never  could  have  satis- 
fied her,  Ambo.  You  weren't  born  to  be  human,  but  some- 
how, in  spite  of  everything,  you  just  are!  It's  your  worst 


122  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

fault  in  Mrs.  Hunt 's  eyes.  Mrs.  Hunt  shouldn  't  have  mar- 
ried a  man ;  she  should  have  married  a  social  tradition ;  an 
abstract  idea." 

"How  could  she?"  asked  Miss  Goucher. 

"Easily,"  said  Susan;  "she's  one  herself,  so  there  must 
be  others.  It's  hard  to  believe,  but  apparently  abstractions 
like  that  do  get  themselves  incarnated  now  and  then.  I 
never  met  one  before — in  the  flesh.  It  gave  me  a  creepy 
feeling — like  shaking  hands  with  the  fourth  dimension  or 
asking  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  to  dinner.  But  I  don't 
pretend  to  make  her  out,  Ambo.  Why  did  she  leave  you? 
It  seems  the  very  thing  an  incarnate  social  tradition  could 
never  have  brought  herself  to  do!" 

Before  I  could  check  myself  I  reproved  her.  "You're 
not  often  merely  cruel,  Susan!"  Then,  hoping  to  soften 
it,  I  hurried  on:  "You  see,  dear,  Gertrude  isn't  greatly 
to  blame.  Suppose  you  had  been  born  and  brought  up  like 
her,  to  believe  beauty  and  brains  and  a  certain  gracious 
way  of  life  a  family  privilege,  a  class  distinction.  Don't 
you  see  how  your  inbred  worship  of  class  and  family 
would  become  in  the  end  an  intenser  form  of  worshipping 
yourself?  Gertrude  was  taught  to  live  exclusively,  from 
girlhood,  in  this  disguised  worship  of  her  own  perfections. 
We're  all  egotists  of  course;  but  most  of  us  are  the  com- 
mon or  garden  variety,  and  have  an  occasional  suspicion 
that  we  're  pretty  selfish  and  intolerant  and  vain.  Gertrude 
has  never  suspected  it.  How  could  she?  A  daughter  of 
her  house  can  do  no  wrong — and  she  is  a  daughter  of  her 
house."  I  sighed. 

"Unluckily,  my  power  of  unreserved  admiration  has 
bounds,  and  my  tongue  and  temper  sometimes  haven't.  So 
our  marriage  dissolved  in  an  acid  bath  compounded  of 
honest  irritations  and  dishonest  apologies.  I  made  the  dis- 
honest apologies.  To  do  Gertrude  justice,  she  never  apolo- 
gized. She  knew  the  initial  fault  was  mine.  I  shouldn't 
have  joined  a  church  whose  creed  I  couldn't  repeat  without 
a  sensation  of  moral  nausea.  That's  just  what  I  did  when 
I  married  Gertrude.  There  was  no  deception  on  her  side, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  123 

either.  I  knew  her  gods,  and  I  knew  she  assumed  that 
mine  were  the  same  as  hers,  and  that  I  was  humbly  enter- 
ing the  service  of  their  dedicated  priestess.  Well,  I  aposta. 
tized — to  her  frozen  amazement.  Then  a  crisis  came — • 
insignificant  enough.  .  .  .  Gertrude  refused  to  call  with, 
ine  on  the  bride  of  an  old  friend  of  mine,  because  sho 
thought  it  a  misalliance.  He  had  no  right,  she  held,  under 
her  jealous  gods,  to  bring  a  former  trained  nurse  home  as 
his  wife,  and  thrust  her  upon  a  society  that  would  never 
otherwise  have  received  her. 

"I  was  furious,  and  blasphemed  her  gods.  I  insisted 
she  should  either  accompany  me,  then  and  there,  or  I'd  go 
myself  and  apologize  for  her — yes,  these  are  the  words  I 
used — her  'congenital  lunacy.'  She  left  me  like  a  statue 
walking,  and  went  to  her  room." 

''And  you?"  asked  Susan. 

"I  made  the  call." 

"Did  you  make  the  apology?" 

"No;  I  couldn't." 

"Naturally  not,"  assented  Miss  Goucher. 

"Oh,  Ambo,"  protested  Susan,  "what  a  coward  you 
are!  Well,  and  then?" 

"I  returned  to  a  wifeless  house.  From  that  hour  until 
yesterday  morning  there  have  been  no  explanations  be- 
tween Gertrude  and  me.  Gertrude  is  superb." 

"I  understand  her  less  than  ever,"  said  Susan. 

"I  understand  her  quite  well,"  said  Miss  Goucher. 
"But  your  long  silence,  Mr.  Hunt — that  I  can't  under- 
stand." 

' '  I  can, ' '  Susan  exclaimed.  ' '  Ambo 's  very  bones  dislike 
her.  So  do  mine.  Do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  shock 
you,  Ambo,  when  I  first  came  here — saying  somebody  or 
other  was  no  damn  good?  Well,  I  can't  help  it;  it's 
stronger  than  I  am.  Mrs.  Hunt's  no " 

"Oh,  child!"  struck  in  Miss  Goucher.  "How  much  you 
have  still  to  learn ! ' '  Then  she  addressed  me :  "  I  've  never 
seen  a  more  distinguished  person  than  Mrs.  Hunt.  I  know 
it's  odd,  coming  from  me,  but  somehow  I  sympathize  with 


124  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

her — greatly.  I've  always" — hesitated  Miss  Gouclier — 
"been  a  proud  sort  of  nobody  myself." 

Susan  reached  over  and  slipped  her  hand  into  Miss 
Goucher  's.  ' '  Poor  Sister !  Just  as  we  're  going  off  together 
you  begin  to  find  out  how  horrid  I  can  be.  But  I'll  make 
a  little  true  confession  to  both  of  you.  What  I  've  been  say- 
ing about  Mrs.  Hunt  isn't  in  the  least  what  I  think  about 
her.  The  fact  is,  I'm  jealous  of  her,  in  so  many  ways — 
except  in  the  ordinary  way!  To  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it,  when  I  was  with  her  she  brought  me  to  my  knees  in  spite 
of  myself.  Oh,  I  acknowledge  her  power !  It 's  uncanny. 
How  did  you  ever  find  strength  to  resist  it,  Ambo?  My 
outbreak  was  sheer  Birch  Street  bravado — a  cheap  insult 
flung  in  the  face  of  the  unattainable !  It  was  all  my  short- 
comings throwing  mud  at  all  her  disdain.  Truly!  Why, 
the  least  droop  of  her  eyelids  taught  me  that  it  takes  more 
than  quick  wits  and  sensitive  nerves  and  hard  study  to 
overcome  a  false  start — or  rather,  no  start  at  all ! 

"Birch  Street  isn't  even  a  beginning,  because,  so  far  as 
Mrs.  Hunt's  concerned,  Birch  Street  simply  doesn't  exist! 
And  even  Birch  Street  would  have  to  admit  that  she  gets 
away  with  it !  I  'd  say  so,  too,  if  I  didn  't  go  a  step  farther 
and  feel  that  it  gets  away  with  her.  That's  why  ridicule 
can't  touch  her.  You  can't  laugh  at  a  devotee,  a  woman 
possessed,  the  instrument  of  a  higher  power!  Mrs.  Hunt's 
a  living  confession  of  faith  in  the  absolute  rightness  of  the 
right  people,  and  a  living  rebuke  to  the  incurable  wrong- 
ness  of  the  wrong!  Oh,  I  knew  at  once  what  you  meant, 
Ambo,  when  you  called  her  a  dedicated  priestess !  It 's  the 
way  I  shall  always  think  of  her — ritually  clothed,  and 
pouring  out  tea  to  her  gods  from  sacred  vessels  of  colonial 
silver !  You  can  smile,  Ambo,  but  I  shall ;  and  way  down 
in  my  common  little  Birch  Street  heart,  I  believe  I  shall 
always  secretly  envy  her.  ...  So  there!" 

For  the  first  time  in  my  remembrance  of  her,  Miss 
Goucher  laughed  out  loud.  Her  laugh — in  effect,  not  in 
resonance — was  like  cockcrow.  We  all  laughed  together, 
and  Gertrude  vanished.  ,  .  But  ten  minutes  later  found 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  125 

us  with  knit  brows  again,  locked  in  debate.  Susan  had  at 
length  seized  courage  to  tell  me  that  when  she  left  my 
house  she  must,  once  and  for  all,  go  it  completely  alone. 
She  could  no  longer  accept  my  financial  protection.  She 
was  to  stand  on  her  own  feet,  for  better  «or  worse,  richer  or 
poorer,  in  sickness  or  in  health.  This  staggering  proposal 
I  simply  could  not  listen  to  calmly,  and  would  not  yield  to ! 
It  was  too  preposterously  absurd. 

Yet  I  made  no  headway  with  my  objections,  until  I 
stumbled  upon  the  one  argument  that  served  me  and  led 
to  a  final  compromise.  "Dear,"  I  had  protested,  really 
and  deeply  hurt  by  Susan's  stubborn  stand  for  absolute 
independence,  "can't  you  feel  how  cruelly  unkind  all  this 
is  to  me?" 

"Oh,"  she  wailed,  "unkind?  Why  did  you  ear  that! 
Surely,  Ambo,  you  don't  mean  it!  Unkind?" 

I  was  quick  to  press  my  advantage.  "  When  you  ask  me 
to  give  up  even  the  mere  material  protection  of  my  family  ? 
You  are  my  family,  Susan — all  the  family  I  shall  ever 
have.  I  don't  want  to  be  maudlin  about  it.  I  don't  wish 
to  interfere  with  your  freedom  to  develop  your  own  life  in 
your  own  way.  But  it's  beyond  my  strength  not  to  plead 
that  all  that's  good  in  my  life  is  bound  up  with  yours. 
Please  don't  ask  me  to  live  in  daily  and  hourly  anxiety 
over  your  reasonable  comfort  and  health.  There's  no  com- 
mon sense  in  it,  Susan.  It 's  fantastic !  And  it  is  unkind ! ' ' 

Susan  could  not  long  resist  this  plea,  for  she  felt  its 
wretched  sincerity,  even  if  she  knew — as  she  later  told  me 
— that  I  was  making  the  most  of  it.  It  was  Miss  Goucher 
who  suggested  our  compromise. 

"Mr.  Hunt,"  she  said,  "my  own  arrangement  with 
Susan  is  this:  We  are  to  pool  our  resources,  and  I  am  to 
make  a  home  for  her,  just  as  if  I  were  her  own  mother. 
I've  been  able  to  save,  during  the  past  twenty-five  years, 
about  eight  thousand  dollars;  it's  well  invested,  I  think, 
and  brings  me  in  almost  five  hundred  a  year.  This  is  what 
we  were  to  start  with ;  and  Susan  feels  certain  she  can  earn 
at  least  two  thousand  dollars  a  year  by  her  4>en.  I  know 


126  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

nothing  of  the  literary  market,  but  I  haven't  counted  on 
her  being  able  to  earn  so  much — for  a  year  or  so,  at  least. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  feel  certain  Susan  will  finally  make 
her  way  as  a  writer.  So  I'd  counted  on  using  part  of  my 
capital  for  a  year  or  two  if  necessary.  We  plan  to  live 
very  simply  for  the  present,  of  course — but  without  hard- 
ship." 

"  Still "  I  would  have  protested,  if  for  once  Miss 

Goucher  had  not  waived  all  deference,  sailing  calmly  on: 

"As  Susan  has  told  you,  she's  convinced  that  she  needs 
the  assurance  of  power  and  self-respect  to  be  gained  by 
meeting  life  without  fear  or  favor  and  making  her  own 
career  in  the  face  of  whatever  difficulties  arise.  There's  a 
good  deal  to  be  said  for  that,  Mr.  Hunt — more  than  you 
could  be  expected  to  understand.  Situated  as  you  have 
always  been,  I  mean.  But  naturally,  as  Susan's  guar- 
dian, you  can't  be  expected  to  stand  aside  if  for  any 
reason  we  fail  in  our  attempt.  I  see  that ;  and  Susan  sees 
it  now,  I'm  sure.  Yet  I  really  feel  I  must  urge  you  to  let 
us  try.  And  I  promise  faithfully  to  keep  you  informed  as 
to  just  how  we  are  getting  on." 

"Please,  Ambo,"  Susan  chimed  in,  "let  us  try.  If  things 
go  badly  I  won't  be  unreasonable  or  stubborn — indeed  I 
won't.  Please  trust  me  for  that.  I'll  even  go  a  step 
farther  than  Sister.  I  won't  let  her  break  into  her  sav- 
ings— not  one  penny.  If  it  ever  comes  to  that,  I'll  come 
straight  to  you.  And  for  the  immediate  present,  I  have 
over  five  hundred  dollars  in  my  bank  account;  and" — she 
smiled — ' '  I  '11  try  to  feel  it 's  honestly  mine.  You  've  spent 
heaven  knows  how  much  on  me,  Ambo;  though  it's  the 
least  of  all  you  've  done  for  me  and  been  to  me !  But  now, 
please  let  me  see  whether  I  could  ever  have  made  anything 
of  myself  if  I  hadn't  been  so  shamelessly  lucky — if  life  had 
treated  me  as  it  treats  most  people.  .  .  .  Jimmy,  for  in- 
stance. .  .  .  He  hasn't  needed  help,  Ambo;  and  I  simply 
must  know  whether  he's  a  better  man  than  I  am,  Gunga 
Dhin!  Don 't  you  see  ?" 

Yes;  I  flatter  myself  that  I  did,  more  or  less  mistily, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  .     127 

begin  to  see.  Thus  our  morning  conference  drew  to  its 
dreary,  amicable  close. 

But  from  the  door  Susan  turned  back  to  me  with  tragic 
eyes:  "Ambo — I'm  caring.  It  does — hurt."  And  since  I 
could  not  very  safely  reply,  she  attempted  a  smile.  ' '  Ambo 
— what  is  to  become  of  poor  Tumps?  Togo  will  have  to 
come;  I  can't  reduce  him  to  atheism.  But  Tumps  would 
die  in  New  York;  and  he  never  has  believed  in  God  any- 
way! Can  you  make  a  martyr  of  yourself  for  his  surly 
sake  ?  Can  you  ?  Just  to  see,  I  mean,  that  he  gets  his  milk 
every  day  and  fish  heads  on  Friday?  Can  you,  dear?" 

I  nodded  and  turned  away.  .  .  .  The  door  closed  so  quietly 
that  I  first  knew  when  the  latch  ticked  once  how  fortu- 
nately I  was  alone. 

XIV 

Maltby  Phar  was  responsible  for  Togo;  he  had  given 
him — a  little  black  fluff-ball  with  shoe-button  eyes — to 
Susan,  about  six  months  after  she  first  came  to  live  with 
me.  Togo  is  a  Chow ;  and  a  Chow  is  biologically  classified 
as  a  dog.  But  if  a  Chow  is  a  dog,  then  a  Russian  sable 
muff  is  a  dish  rag.  Your  Chow — black,  smoke  blue,  or  red 
• — is  a  creation  apart.  He  is  to  dogdom  what  Hillhouse 
Avenue  is  to  Birch  Street — the  wrong  end,  bien  entendu. 
His  blood  is  so  blue  that  his  tongue  is  purple;  and,  like 
Susan's  conception  of  Gertrude,  he  is  a  living  confession 
of  faith  in  the  Tightness  of  the  right  people,  a  living  re- 
buke to  the  wrongness  of  the  wrong ;  the  right  people  being, 
of  course,  that  master  god  or  mistress  goddess  whom  he 
worships,  with  their  immediate  entourage.  No  others  need 
apply  for  even  cursory  notice,  much  less  respect. 

I  am  told  they  eat  Chows  in  China,  their  native  land. 
If  they  do,  it  must  be  from  the  motive  that  drove  Plu- 
tarch's Athenian  to  vote  the  banishment  of  Aristides — 
ennui,  to  wit,  kindling  to  rage;  he  had  wearied  to  mad- 
ness of  hearing  him  always  named  ' '  the  Just. ' '  Back,  too, 
in  America — for  I  write  from  France — there  will  one  day 
be  proletarian  reprisals  against  the  Chow;  for  in  the  art 


128      ,  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

of  cutting  one  dead  your  Chow  is  supreme.  He  goes  by 
you  casually,  on  tiptoe,  with  the  glazed  eye  of  indiffer- 
ence. He  sees  you  and  does  not  see  you — and  will  not. 
You  may  cluck,  you  may  whistle,  you  may  call;  interest 
will  not  excite  him,  nor  flattery  move  him;  he  passes;  he 
"goes  his  unremembering  way."  But  let  him  beware! 
If  Americans  are  slow  to  anger,  they  are  terrible  when 
roused.  I  have  frequently  explained  this  to  Togo — more 
for  Susan's  sake  than  his  own — and  been  yawned  at  for 
my  pains. 

Personally,  I  have  no  complaint  to  make.  In  Togo's 
eyes  I  am  one  of  the  right  people.  He  has  always  treated 
me  with  a  certain  tact,  though  with  a  certain  reserve. 
Only  to  Susan  does  he  prostrate  himself  with  an  almost 
mystical  ecstasy  of  devotion.  Only  for  her  does  his  feath- 
ered tail-arc  quiver,  do  his  ears  lie  back,  his  calm  ebon  lips 
part  in  an  unmistakably  adoring  smile.  But  there  is  much 
else,  I  admit,  to  be  said  for  him ;  he  never  barks  his  deep 
menacing  bark  without  cause;  and  as  a  mere  objet  d'art, 
when  well  combed,  he  is  superb.  Ming  porcelains  are 
nothing  to  him;  he  is  perhaps  the  greatest  decorative 
achievement  of  the  unapproachably  decorative  East.  .  .  . 

But  for  Tumps,  my  peculiar  legacy,  I  have  nothing  good 
to  say  and  no  apologies  to  offer.  Like  Calverley  's  parrot, 
he  still  lives — ' '  he  will  not  die. ' '  Tumps  is  a  tomcat.  And 
not  only  is  he  a  tomcat,  he  is  a  hate-scarred  noctivagant, 
owning  but  an  ear  and  a  half,  and  a  poor  third  of  tail.  His 
design  was  botched  at  birth,  and  has  since  been  degraded ; 
his  color  is  unpleasant;  his  expression  is  ferocious — and 
utterly  sincere.  He  has  no  friends  in  the  world  but  Susan 
and  Sonia,  and  Sonia  cannot  safely  keep  him  with  her 
because  of  the  children. 

Out  of  the  night  he  came,  shortly  after  Togo's  arrival; 
starved  for  once  into  submission  and  dragging  himself 
across  the  garden  terrace  to  Susan's  feet.  And  she  ac- 
cepted this  devil's  gift,  this  household  scourge.  I  never 
did,  nor  did  Togo;  but  we  were  finally  subdued  by  fear. 
Those  baleful  eyes  cursing  us  from  dim  corners — Togo> 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  129 

Togo,  shall  we  ever  forget  them!  Separately  or  together, 
we  have  more  than  once  failed  to  enter  a  dusky  room, 
toward  twilight,  where  those  double  phosphors  burned  from 
your  couch  corner  or  out  from  beneath  my  easy-chair. 

But  nothing  would  move  Susan  to  give  Tumps  up  so 
long  as  he  cared  to  remain ;  and  Tumps  cared.  Small  won- 
der! Nursed  back  to  health  and  rampageous  vivacity,  he 
soon  mastered  the  neighborhood,  peopled  it  with  his  ill- 
favored  offspring,  and  wailed  his  obscene  balladry  to  the 
moon.  Hillhouse  Avenue  protested,  en  bloc.  The  Misses 
Carstairs,  whose  slumbers  had  more  than  once  been  post- 
poned, and  whose  white  Persian,  Desdemona,  had  been 
debauched,  threatened  traps,  poison  and  the  law.  Profes- 
sor Emeritus  Gillingwater  attempted  murder  one  night 
with  a  .22  rifle,  but  only  succeeded  in  penetrating  the  glass 
roof  of  his  neighbor's  conservatory. 

Susan  was  unmoved,  defending  her  own ;  she  would  not 
listen  to  any  plea,  and  she  mocked  at  reprisals.  Those  were 
the  early  days  of  her  coming,  when  I  could  not  force  my- 
self to  harsh  measures;  and  happily  Tumps,  having  lost 
some  seven  or  eight  lives,  did  with  the  years  grow  more 
sedate,  though  no  more  amiable.  But  the  point  is,  he 
stayed — and,  I  repeat,  lives  to  this  hour  on  my  distant, 
grudging  bounty. 

Such  was  the  charge  lightly  laid  upon  me.  .  .  . 

Oh,  Susan — Susan!  For  once,  resentment  will  out! 
May  you  suffer,  shamed  to  contrition,  as  you  read  these 
lines!  Tumps — and  I  say  it  now  boldly — is  "no  damn 
good." 

XV 

I  am  clinging  to  this  long  chapter  as  if  I  were  still  cling- 
ing to  Susan's  hand  on  the  wind-swept  station  platform, 
hoarding  time  by  innnitesimally  split  seconds,  dreading 
her  inevitable  escape.  Phil — by  request,  I  suspect — did 
not  come  down;  and  Susan  forbade  me  to  enter  the  train 
with  her,  having  previously  forbidden  me  to  accompany 
her  to  town.  Togo  was  forward,  amid  crude  surroundings, 


130  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

riling  the  brakemen  with  his  disgusted  disdain.  Miss 
Goucher  had  already  said  a  decorous  but  sincerely  felt 
good-by,  and  had  taken  her  place  inside. 

"Let's  not  be  silly,  Ambo,"  Susan  whispered.  "After 
all,  you'll  be  down  soon — won't  you?  You're  always  run- 
ning to  New  York." 

Then,  unexpectedly,  she  snatched  her  hand  from  mine, 
threw  her  arms  tight  round  my  neck,  and  for  a  reckless 
public  moment  sobbed  and  kissed  me.  With  that  she  was 
gone.  ...  I  turned,  too,  at  once,  meaning  flight  from  the 
curious  late-comers  pressing  toward  the  car  steps.  One 
of  them  distinctly  addressed  me. 

"Good  morning,  Ambrose.  Don't  worry  about  your 
charming  little  ward.  She'll  be  quite  safe — away  from 
you.  I'll  keep  a  friendly  eye  on  her  going  down." 

It  was  Lucette. 


THE  FOURTH  CHAPTER 


I  HAD  a  long  conference  with  Phil  the  day  after  Susan's 
departure,  and  we  solemnly  agreed  that  we  must, 
•within  reasonable  limits,  give  Susan  a  clear  field;  her  de- 
sire to  play  a  lone  hand  in  the  cut-throat  poker  game  called 
life  must  be,  so  far  as  possible,  respected.  But  we  sneak- 
ingly  evaded  any  definition  of  our  terms.  ' '  Within  reason- 
able limits;"  ''so  far  as  possible" — the  vagueness  of  these 
phrases  will  give  you  the  measure  of  our  secret  duplicity. 

Meanwhile  we  lived  on  from  mail  delivery  to  mail  de- 
livery, and  Susan  proved  a  faithful  correspondent.  There 
is  little  doubt,  I  think,  that  the  length  and  frequency  of  her 
letters  constituted  a  deliberate  sacrifice  of  energy  and  time, 
laid — not  reluctantly,  but  not  always  lightly — on  the  altar 
of  affection.  It  was  a  genuine,  yet  must  often  have  been 
an  arduous  piety.  To  write  full  life-giving  letters  late  at 
night,  after  long  hours  of  literary  labor,  is  no  trifling 
effort  of  good  will — good  will,  in  this  instance,  to  two  of 
the  loneliest,  forlornest  of  men.  Putting  aside  the  mere 
anodyne  of  work  we  had  but  one  other  effective  consolation 
— Jimmy;  our  increasing  interest  and  joy  in  Jimmy.  But, 
for  me  at  least,  this  was  not  an  immediate  consolation ;  my 
taste  for  Jimmy's  prosaic  companionship  was  very  gradu- 
ally acquired. 

Our  first  word  from  Susan  was  a  day  letter,  telephoned 
to  me  from  the  telegraph  office,  though  I  at  once  demanded 
the  delivery  of  a  verbatim  copy  by  messenger.  Here  it  is : 

"At  grand  central  safe  so  far  new  york  lies  roaring  just 
beyond  sister  and  togo  tarry  with  the  stuff  near  cab  stand 
while  I  send.  Love  Mrs.  Arthur  snooped  in  vain  now  for 
it  courage  Susan  whos  afraid  dont  you  be  alonsen  fan." 

131 


132  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Phil,  the  scholar,  interpreted  the  last  two  verbatim  sym- 
bols: " Allans,  enfants!" 

u 

SUSAN  TO  ME 

"Sister  and  I  are  at  the  nice  old  mid- Victorian  Brevoort 
House  for  three  or  four  days.  Sister  is  calmly  and  cour- 
ageously hunting  rooms  for  us — or,  if  not  rooms,  a  room. 
She  hopes  for  the  plural.  We  like  this  quarter  of  town. 
It's  near  enough  publishers  and  things  for  walking,  and 
it's  not  quite  so  New  Yorky  as  some  others.  What  Sis- 
ter is  trying  to  avoid  for  us  is  slavery  to  the  Subway, 
which  is  awful !  But  we  may  have  to  fly  up  beyond  Colum- 
bia, or  even  to  the  Bronx,  before  we're  through.  The  hotel 
objected  to  Togo,  but  I  descended  to  hitherto  untried  depths 
of  feminine  wheedle — and  justified  them  by  getting  my 
way.  Sister  blushed  for  me — and  herself — but  has  since 
felt  more  confident  about  my  chances  for  success  in  this 
wickedly  opportunist  world. 

"Better  skip  this  part  if  you  read  extracts  to  Phil;  he'll 
brood.  But  perhaps  you'd  better  begin  disillusioning  him 
at  once,  for  I'm  discovering  dreadful  possibilities  in  my 
nature — now  the  Hillhouse  inhibitions  seem  remote.  New 
York,  one  sees  overnight,  is  no  place  for  a  romantic  ideal- 
ist— Maltby's  phrase,  not  mine,  bless  Phil's  heart! — but 
luckily  I  've  never  been  one.  Birch  Street  is  going  to  stand 
me  in  good  stead  down  here.  New  York  is  Birch  Street 
on  a  slightly  exaggerated  scale ;  Hillhouse  Avenue  is  some- 
thing entirely  different.  Finer  too,  perhaps;  but  the 
world's  future  has  its  roots  in  New  Birch  Street.  I  began 
to  feel  that  yesterday  during  my  first  hunt  for  a  paying 
job. 

"I've  plunged  on  shop  equipment,  since  Jimmy  says, 
other  things  being  equal,  the  factory  with  the  best  tools  wins 
• — that  is,  I've  bought  a  reliable  typewriter,  and  I  tackled 
my  first  two-finger  exercises  last  night.  The  results  were 
dire — mostly  interior  capitals  and  extraneous  asterisks.  I 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  133 

shan't  have  patience  to  take  proper  five-finger  lessons. 
Sister  vows  she's  going  to  master  the  wretched  thing  too, 
so  she  can  help  with  copying  now  and  then.  There's  a 
gleam  in  her  eye,  dear — wonderful !  This  is  to  be  her  great 
adventure  as  well  as  mine.  'Susan,  Sister  &  Co.,  Unli- 
censed Hacks — Piffle  While  You  Wait ! '  Oh,  we  shall  get 
on — you'll  see.  Still,  I  can't  truthfully  report  much  prog- 
ress yesterday  or  to-day,  though  a  shade  more  to-day  than 
yesterday.  I've  been  counting  callously  on  Maltby,  as 
Phil  disapprovingly  knows,  and  I  brought  three  short 
manufactured-m-advance  articles  for  the  Garden  Ex.  down 
with  me.  So  my  first  step  was  to  stifle  my  last  maidenly 
scruple  and  take  them  straight  to  Maltby;  I  hoped  they 
would  pay  at  least  for  the  typewriter.  It  was  a  clear  ice- 
bath  of  a  morning,  and  the  walk  up  Fifth  Avenue  braced 
me  for  anything.  I  stared  at  everybody  and  a  good  many 
unattached  males  stared  back;  sometimes  I  rather  liked 
it,  and  sometimes  not.  It  all  depends. 

"But  I  found  the  right  building  at  last,  somewhere  be- 
tween the  Waldorf  and  the  Public  Library.  There's  a 
shop  on  its  avenue  front  for  the  sale  of  false  pearls,  and 
judging  from  the  shop  they  must  be  more  expensive  than 
real  ones.  Togo  dragged  me  in  there  at  first  by  mistake ; 
and  as  I  was  wearing  my  bestest  tailor-made  and  your  furs, 
and  as  Togo  was  wearing  his.  plus  his  haughtiest  atmos- 
phere, we  seemed  between  us  to  be  just  the  sort  of  thing  the 
languid  clerks  had  been  waiting  for.  There  was  a  hopeful 
stir  as  we  entered — no,  swept  in!  I  was  really  sorry  to 
disappoint  them ;  it  was  horrid  to  feel  that  we  couldn't  live 
up  to  their  expectations. 

"We  didn't  sweep  out  nearly  so  well!  But  we  found 
the  elevator  round  the  corner  and  were  taken  up  four  or 
five  floors,  passing  a  designer  of  de  luxe  corsets  and  a  dis- 
tiller of  de  luxe  perfumes  on  the  way,  and  landed  in  th« 
impressive  outer  office  of  the  Garden  Ex. 

"But  how  stupid  of  me  to  describe  all  this!  You've 
been  there  twenty  times,  of  course,  and  remember  the 
apple-green  art-crafty  furniture  and  potted  palms  and 


134  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

things.  Several  depressed-looking  persons  were  fidgeting 
about,  but  my  engraved  card — score  one  for  Hillhouse! — • 
soon  brought  Maltby  puffing  out  to  me  with  both  hands 
extended.  Togo  didn't  quite  cut  him  dead,  but  almost, 
and  he  insulted  an  entire  roomful  of  stenographers  on  his 
way  to  the  great  man's  sanctum.  My  first  sanctum,  Ambo ! 
I  did  get  a  little  thrill  from  that,  in  spite  of  Maltby. 

"Stop  chattering,  Susan — stick  to  facts.  Yes,  Phil, 
please.  Fact  One :  Maltby  was  surprisingly  flustered  at 
first.  He  was,  Ambo !  He  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
was  down  for  shopping  or  the  theaters,  and  assumed  of 
course  you  were  with  me.  So  you  were,  dear — our  way! 
But  I  thought  Maltby  asked  rather  gingerly^  after  you. 
Why? 

' '  Fact  Two :  I  did  my  best  to  explain  things,  but  Maltby 
doesn  't  believe  yet  I  'm  serious — seemingly  he  can 't  believe 
it,  because  he  doesn't  want  to.  That's  always  true  of 
Maltby.  He  still  thinks  this  must  be  a  sudden  spasm — not 
of  virtue;  thinks  I've  run  away  for  an  unholy  lark.  It 
suks  him  to  think  so.  If  I'm  out  on  the  loose  he  hopes 
to  manage  the  whole  Mardi  gras,  and  he  needn't  hear  what 
I  say  about  needing  work  too  distinctly.  That  merely  an- 
noyed him.  But  I  did  finally  make  him  promise — while  he 
wriggled — to  read  my  three  articles  and  give  me  a  decision 
on  them  to-morrow.  I  had  to  promise  to  lunch  with  him 
then  to  make  even  that  much  headway. — Oof! 

Meanwhile,  I  fared  slightly  better  to-day.  I  took  your 
letter  to  Mr.  Sampson.  The  sign,  Garnett  &  Co.,  almost 
frightened  me  off,  though,  Ambo;  and  you  know  I'm  not 
easily  frightened.  But  I've  read  so  many  of  their  books 
— wonderful  books!  I  knew  great  men  had  gone  before 
me  into  those  dingy  offices  and  left  their  precious  manu- 
scripts to  strengthen  and  delight  the  world.  Who  was  I 
to  follow  those  footsteps?  Luckily  an  undaunted  messen- 
ger boy  whistled  on  in  ahead  of  me — so  I  followed  his  in- 
stead! By  the  time  I  had  won  past  all  the  guardians  of 
the  sanctum  sanctorum,  my  sentimental  fit  was  over.  Birch 
Street  was  herself  again. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  135 

"And  Mr.  Sampson  proved  all  you  promised — rather 
more!  The  dearest  odd  old  man,  full  of  blunt  kindness 
and  sudden  whimsy.  I  think  he  liked  me.  I  know  I  liked 
him.  But  he  didn't  like  me  as  I  did  him — at  first  sight. 
Togo's  fault,  of  course.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  Mr. 
Sampson  has  a  democratic  prejudice  against  aristocratic 
dogs?  I  must  learn  to  leave  poor  Togo  at  home — if  there 
ever  is  such  a  place! — when  I'm  looking  for  work;  I  may 
even  have  to  give  up  your  precious  soul-and-body- warming 
furs.  Between  them,  they  belie  every  humble  petition  I 
utter.  Sister  and  I  may  have  to  eat  Togo  yet. 

"Mr.  Sampson  only  began  to  relent  when  I  told  him  a 
little  about  Birch  Street.  I  didn't  tell  him  much — just 
enough  to  counteract  the  furs  and  Togo.  And  he  forgave 
me  everything  when  I  told  him  of  Sister  and  confessed 
what  we  were  hoping  to  do — found  a  home  together  and 
earn  our  own  right  to  make  it  a  comfy  one  to  live  in.  He 
questioned  me  pretty  sharply,  too,  but  not  from  snifty- 
snoops  like  Mrs.  Arthur. 

"By  the  way,  dear,  she  was  on  the  train  coming  down, 
as  luck  would  have  it,  in  the  chair  just  across  from  mine. 
Her  questions  were  masterpieces,  but  nothing  to  my  replies. 
I  was  just  wretched  enough  to  scratch  without  mercy;  it 
relieved  my  feelings.  But  you'd  better  avoid  her  for  a 
week  or  two — if  you  can !  I  didn  't  mind  any  of  Mr.  Samp- 
son's  questions,  though  I  eluded  some  of  them,  being  young 
in  years  but  old  in  guile.  I'm  to  take  him  my  poems  to- 
morrow afternoon,  and  some  bits  of  prose  things — the  ones 
you  liked.  They're  not  much  more  than  fragments,  I'm 
afraid.  He  says  he  wants  to  get  the  hang  of  me  before 
loading  me  down  with  bad  advice.  I  do  like  him,  and — the 
serpent  having  trailed  its  length  all  over  this  endless  letter 
— I  truly  think  his  offhand  friendship  may  prove  far  more 

helpful  to  me  than  Maltby  's !  You  can  fill  in  the 

blank,  Ambo.  My  shamelessness  has  limits,  even  now,  in 
darkest  New  York. 

"Good  night,  dear.  Please  don't  think  you  are  ever  far 
from  my  me-est  thoughts.  Now  for  that typewriter  I ' ' 


1SS  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

m 

SUSAN  TO  JIMMY 

"That's  a  breath-taking  decision  you've  made,  but  like 
you;  and  I'm  proud  of  you  for  having  made  it — and 
prouder  that  the  idea  was  entirely  your  own.  I  suppose 
we're  all  bound  to  be  more  or  less  lopsided  in  a  world 
slightly  flattened  at  the  poles  and  rather  wobbly  on  its  axis 
anyway.  But  the  less  lopsided  we  are  the  better  for  us, 
and  the  better  for  us  the  better  for  others — and  that's 
one  universal  law,  at  least,  that  doesn't  make  me  long  for 
a  universal  recall  and  referendum. 

"Oh,  you're  right  to  stay  on  at  Yale,  but  so  much 
righter  to  have  decided  on  a  broad  general  course  instead 
of  a  narrow  technical  one!  Of  course  you  can  carry  on 
your  technical  studies  by  yourself!  With  your  brain's 
natural  twist  and  the  practical  training  you've  had,  prob- 
ably carry  them  much  farther  by  yourself  than  under  di- 
rection! And  the  way  you've  chosen  will  open  vistas, 
bring  the  sky  through  the  jungle  to  you.  It  wras  brave 
of  you  to  see  that  and  take  the  first  difficult  step.  "11  n'y 
a  que  le  premier  pas  qui  coute" — but  no  wonder  you  hesi- 
tated! Because  at  your  advanced  age,  Jimmy,  and  from 
an  efficient  point  of  view,  it's  a  downright  silly  step,  waste- 
ful of  time — and  time  you  know's  money — and  money  you 
know's  everything.  Only,  I'm  afraid  you  don't  know  that 
intensely  enough  ever  to  have  a  marble  mansion  on  upper 
Fifth  Avenue,  a  marble  villa  at  Newport,  a  marble  bunga- 
low at  Palm  Beach,  a  marble  steam  yacht — but  they  don't 
make  those  of  marble,  do  they ! 

"It's  BO  possible  for  you  to  collect  all  these  marbles, 
Jimmy — reelers,  every  one  of  them! — if  you'll  only  start 
now  and  do  nothing  else  for  the  next  thirty  or  forty  years. 
You  can  be  a  poor  boy  who  became  infamous  just  as  easy 
as  pie!  Simply  forget  the  world's  so  full  of  a  number  of 
things,  and  grab  all  you  can  of  just  one.  But  I  could  hug 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  13? 

you  for  wanting  to  be  a  man,  not  an  adding-machine ! 
For  caring  to  know  why  Socrates  was  richer  than  Morgan, 
and  why  Saint  Francis  and  Sainte-Beuve,  each  in  his  own 
way,  have  helped  more  to  make  life  worth  living  than  all 
the  Rothschilds  of  Europe !  Oh,  I  know  it 's  a  paradox  for 
me  to  preach  this,  when  here  am  I  trying  to  «ollcet  a  few 
small  clay  marbles — putting  every  ounce  of  concentration 
in  me  on  money  making,  on  material  success!  Not  get- 
ting far  with  it,  either — so  far. 

"But  what  I'm  doing,  Jimmy,  is  just  what  yon've  set 
out  to  do — I'm  trying  not  to  be  lopsided.  You've  met 
life  as  it  is,  already ;  I  never  have.  And  I'd  so  love  to  mooa 
along  pleasantly  on  Ambo's  inherited  money — read  books 
and  write  verses  and  look  at  flowers  and  cats  and  stars  and 
trees  and  children  and  cows  and  chickens  and  funny  dogs 
and  donkeys  and  funnier  women  and  men!  I'd  so  like 
not  to  adjust  myself  to  an  industrial  civilization;  not  to 
worry  over  that  sort  of  thing  at  all;  above  everything,  not 
to  earn  my  daily  bread.  I  could  cry  about  having  to  make 
up  my  mind  on  such  bristly  beasts  as  economic  or  social 
problems ! 

"The  class  struggle  bores  me  to  tears — yet  here  it  is, 
we're  up  against  it ;  and  I  won't  be  lopsided !  Y/hat  I  want 
is  pure  thick  cream,  daintily  fed  to  me,  too,  from  a  hand- 
beaten  spoon.  So  I  mustn't  have  it  unless  I  can  get  it. 
And  I  don't  know  that  I  can — you  see,  it  isn't  all  con- 
science that's  driving  me ;  curiosity's  at  work  as  well !  But 
it's  scrumptious  to  know  we're  both  studying  the  same 
thing  in  a  different  way — the  one  great  subject,  after  all: 
How  not  to  be  lopsided!  How  to  be  perfectly  spherical, 
like  the  old  man  in  the  nonsense  rhyme.  Not  wobbly  on 
one's  axis — not  even  slightly  flattened  at  the  poles!" 

"Hurrah  for  us!    Trumpets! 

"But  I'm  gladdest  of  all  that  you  and  Ambo  are  be- 
ginning at  last  to  be  friends.  You  don 't  either  of  you  say 
so — it  drifts  through ;  and  I  could  sing  about  it — if  I  could 
sing.  There  isn't  anybody  in  the  world  like  Ambo. 

"As  for  Sister  and  me,  we're  getting  on,  and  we're 


138  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

not.  Sister  thinks  I've  done  marvels;  I  know  she  has. 
Marvels  of  economy  and  taste  in  cozying  up  our  room,  mar- 
vels of  sympathy  and  canny  advice  that  doesn't  sound  like 
advice  at  all.  As  one-half  of  a  mutual-admiration  syndi- 
cate I  'm  a  complete  success !  But  as  a  professional  author 
— hum,  hum.  Anyway,  I'm  beginning  to  poke  my  inquisi- 
tive nose  into  a  little  of  everything,  and  you  can't  tell — 
something,  some  day,  may  come  of  this.  As  the  Dickens 
man  said — who  was  he? — I  hope  it  mayn't  be  human  gore. 
Meanwhile,  one  thing  hits  the  most  casual  eye :  We  're  still 
in  the  double-room-with-alcove  boarding-house  stage,  and 
likely  to  stay  there  for  some  time  to  come." 

IV 

SUSAN  TO  PHIL 

"Your  short  letter  answering  my  long  one  has  been 
read  and  reread  and  read  again.  I  know  it  by  heart. 
Everything  you  say's  true — and  isn't.  I'll  try  to  explain 
that — for  I  can't  bear  you  to  be  doubting  me.  You  are, 
Phil.  I  don't  blame  you,  but  I  do  blame  myself — for  com- 
placency. I've  taken  too  much  for  granted,  as  I  always 
do  with  you  and  Ambo.  You  see,  I  know  so  intensely 
that  you  and  Ambo  are  pure  gold — incorruptible ! — that  I 
couldn't  possibly  question  anything  you  might  say  or  do 
— the  fineness  of  the  motive,  I  mean.  If  you  did  murder 
and  were  hanged  for  it,  and  even  if  I'd  no  clue  as  to  why 
you  struck — I  should  know  all  the  time  you  must  have  dona 
it  because,  for  some  concealed  reason,  under  circumstances 
dark  to  the  rest  of  us,  your  clear  eyes  marked  it  as  the 
one  possible  right  thing  to  do. 

"Yes,  I  trust  you  like  that,  Phil;  you  and  Ambo  and 
Sister  and  Jimmy.  Think  of  trusting  four  people  like  that ! 
How  rich  I  am!  And  you  can't  know  how  passionately 
grateful!  For  it  isn't  blind  trusting  at  all.  In  each  one 
of  you  I've  touched  a  soul  of  goodness.  There's  no  other 
name  for  it.  It's  as  simple  as  fresh  air.  You're  good — 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  139 

you  four — good  from  the  center.  But,  Phil  dear,  a  little 
secret  to  comfort  you — just  between  us  and  the  stars :  So, 
mostly,  am  I. 

''Truly,  Phil,  I'm  ridiculously  good  at  the  center,  and 
most  of  the  way  out.  There  are  things  I  simply  can't  do, 
no  matter  how  much  I'd  like  to;  and  lots  of  oozy,  opally 
things  I  simply  can't  like  at  all.  I'm  with  you  so  far,  at 
least — peacock- proud  to  be!  But  we're  tremendously  dif- 
ferent, all  the  same.  It's  really  this,  I  think:  You're  a 
Puritan,  by  instinct  and  cultivation;  and  I'm  not.  The 
clever  ones  down  here,  you  know,  spend  most  of  their 
spare  time  swearing  by  turns  at  Puritanism  and  the  Vic- 
torian Era.  Their  favorite  form  of  exercise  is  patting 
themselves  on  the  back,  and  this  is  one  of  their  subtler 
ways  of  doing  it.  But  they  just  rampantly  rail;  they 
don't — though  they  think  they  do — understand.  They  mix 
up  every  passe  narrowness  and  bigotry  and  hypocrisy  and 
sentimental  cant  in  one  foul  stew,  and  then  rush  from  it, 
with  held  noses,  screaming  "Puritanism!  Faugh!"  Well, 
it  does,  Phil — their  stew !  So,  often,  for  that  matter — and 
to  high  heaven — do  the  clever  ones ! 

"But  it  isn't  Puritanism,  the  real  thing.  Yon  see,  I 
know  the  real  thing — for  I  know  you.  Ignorance,  bigotry, 
hypocrisy,  sentimentalism — such  things  have  no  part  in 
your  life.  And  yet  you  're  a  Puritan,  and  I  'm  not.  Some- 
thing divides  us  where  we  are  most  alike.  "What  is  it, 
Phil? 

"May  I  tell  you?  I  almost  dare  believe  I've  puzzled  it 
out. 

"You're  a  eimon-Puritan,  dear,  because  you  won't  trust 
that  central  goodness,  your  own  heart;  the  very  thing  in 
you  on  whose  virgin-goldness  I  would  stake  my  life !  You 
Won't  trust  it  in  yourself;  and  when  you  find  it  in  others, 
you  don't  fully  trust  it  in  them.  You've  purged  your 
philosophy  of  Original  Sin,  but  it  still  secretly  poisons  the 
marrow  of  your  bones.  You  guard  your  soul's  strength 
as  possible  weakness — something  that  might  vanish  sud- 
denly, at  a  pinch.  How  silly  of  you !  For  it's  the  you-est 


140  THE  BOOK  OP  SUSAN 

you,  the  thing  you  can  never  change  or  escape.  Instead 
of  worrying  over  yourself  or  others — me  ? — you  could  safely 
spread  yourself,  Phil  dear,  all  over  the  landscape,  lie  back 
in  the  lap  of  Mother  Earth  and  twiddle  your  toes  and 
smile!  Walt  Whitman's  way!  He  may  have  overdone 
it  now  and  then,  posed  about  it;  but  I'm  on  his  side,  not 
yours.  It's  heartier — human-er — more  fun!  Yes,  Master 
Puritan — more  fun!  That's  a  life  value  you've  mostly 
missed.  But  it's  never  too  late,  Phil,  for  a  genuine  cosmic 
spree. 

"Now  I've  done  scolding  back  at  you  for  scolding  at  me. — 
But  I  loved  your  sermon.  I  hope  you  won't  shudder  over 
mine?" 


The  above  too-cryptic  letter  badly  needs  authoritative 
annotation,  which  I  now  proceed  to  give  you — at  perilous 
length.  But  it  will  lead  us  far.  .  .  . 

Though  it  is  positively  not  true  that  Phil  and  I,  having 
covenanted  on  a  hands-off  policy,  were  independently  hop- 
ing for  the  worst,  so  far  as  Susan's  ability  to  cope  unaided 
with  New  York  was  concerned ;  nevertheless,  the  ease  with 
which  she  made  her  way  there,  found  her  feet  without  us 
and  danced  ahead,  proved  for  some  reason  oddly  disturbing 
to  us  both.  Here  was  a  child,  of  high  talents  certainly, 
perhaps  of  genius — the  like,  at  least,  of  whose  mental  pre- 
cocity we  had  never  met  with  in  any  other  daughter — much 
less,  son — of  Eve !  A  woman,  for  we  so  loved  her,  endowed 
as  are  few  women ;  yet  assuredly  a  child,  for  she  had  but 
just  counted  twenty  years  on  earth.  And  being  men  of 
careful  maturity,  once  Susan  had  left  us,  our  lonely  anx- 
ieties fastened  upon  this  crying  fact  of  her  youth ;  it  was 
her  youth,  her  inexperience,  that  made  her  venture  sud- 
denly pathetic  and  dreadful  to  us,  made  us  yearn  to  watch 
over  her,  warn  her  of  pitfalls,  guide  her  steps. 

True,  she  was  not  alone.  Miss  Goucher  was  admirable 
in  her  way;  though  a  middle-aged  spinster,  after  all,  un- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  141 

used  to  the  sharp  temptations  and  fierce  competitions  of 
metropolitan  life.  It  was  not  a  house-mother  Susan  would 
need;  the  wolves  lurked  beyond  the  door — shrewd,  soft- 
treading  wolves,  cunningly  disguised.  How  could  a  child, 
a  charming  and  too  daring  child — however  gifted — be  ex- 
pected to  deal  with  these  creatures?  The  thought  of  these 
subtle,  these  patient  ones,  tracking  her — tracking  her — 
chilled  us  to  hours-long  wakefulness  in  the  night!  Then 
with  the  morning  a  letter  would  come,  filled  with  strange 
men's  names. 

We  compared  notes,  consulted  together — shaking  un- 
happy heads.  We  wrote  tactful  letters  to  Heywood  Samp- 
son, begging  him,  but  always  indirectly,  to  keep  an  eye. 
We  ran  down  singly  for  nights  in  town,  rescued — the  verb 
was  ours — Susan  and  Miss  Goucher  from  their  West  10th 
Street  boarding-house,  interfered  with  their  work  or  other 
plans,  haled  them — the  verb,  I  fear,  was  theirs — to  dinner, 
to  the  opera  or  theater,  or  perhaps  to  call  on  someone  of 
ribbed  respectability  who  might  prove  an  observant  friend. 
God  knows,  in  spite  of  all  resolutions,  we  did  our  poor  best 
to  mind  Susan 's  business  for  her,  to  brood  over  her  destiny 
from  afar! 

And  God  knows  our  efforts  were  superfluous !  The  traps, 
stratagems,  springes  in  her  path,  merely  suspected  by  us 
and  hence  the  more  darkly  dreaded,  were  clearly  seen  by 
Susan  and  laughed  at  for  the  ancient,  pitiful  frauds  they 
were.  The  dull  craft,  the  stale  devices  of  avarice  or  lust 
were  no  novelties  to  her;  she  greeted  them,  en  passant, 
with  the  old  Birch  Street  terrier-look ;  just  a  half-mocking 
nod  of  recognition — an  amused,  half-wistful  salute  to  her 
gamin  past.  It  was  her  gamin  past  we  had  forgotten,  Phil 
and  I,  when  we  agoni2ed  over  Susan 's  inexperienced  youth. 
Inexperienced?  Bob  Blake's  kid!  If  there  were  things 
New  York  could  yet  teach  Bob  Blake's  kid — and  there 
were  many — they  were  not  those  that  had  made  her  see  in 
it  "Birch  Street — on  a  slightly  exaggerated  scale"! 

But,  as  the  Greeks  discovered  many  generations  ago, 
it  is  impossible  to  be  high-minded  or  clear-sighted  enough 


142  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

to  outwit  a  secret  unreason  in  the  total  scheme  of  things. 
Else  the  virtuous,  in  the  Greek  sense,  would  be  always  the 
fortunate ;  and  perhaps  then  would  grow  too  self -regarding. 
Does  the  last  and  austerest  beauty  of  the  ideal  not  flower 
from  this,  that  it  can  promise  us  nothing  but  itself?  You 
can  choose  a  clear  road,  yet  you  shall  never  walk  there  in 
safety:  Chance — that  secret  unreason — lurks  in  the  hedge- 
rows, myriad-formed,  to  plot  against  you.  "Helas!"  as 
the  French  heroine  might  say.  ' '  Diddle-diddle-dumpling ! ' ' 
as  might  say  Susan.  .  .  .  Meaning :  That  strain,  Ambo,  was 
of  a  higher  mood,  doubtless ;  but  do  return  to  your  muttons. 

Susan  had  reached  New  York  late  in  November,  1913, 
and  the  letter  to  Phil  dates  from  the  following  January. 
Barely  two  months  had  passed  since  her  first  calls  upon 
Maltby  and  Heywood  Sampson,  but  every  day  of  that 
period  had  been  made  up  of  crowded  hours.  Of  the  three 
manufactured-in-advance  articles  for  the  Garden  Ex., 
Maltby  had  accepted  one,  paying  thirty  dollars  for  it,  half- 
rate — Susan's  first  professional  earnings;  but  the  manner 
of  his  acceptance  had  convinced  Susan  it  was  a  mere  stroke 
of  personal  diplomacy  on  his  part.  He  did  not  wish  to 
encourage  her  as  a  business  associate,  for  Maltby  kept  hia 
business  activities  rigidly  separate  from  what  he  held  to 
be  his  life;  neither  did  he  wish  to  offend  her.  "What  he 
wholly  desired  was  to  draw  her  into  the  immediate  circles 
he  frequented  as  a  social  being,  where  he  could  act  as  her 
patron  on  a  scale  at  once  more  brilliant  and  more  im- 
pressive. 

So  far  as  the  Garden  Ex.  was  concerned,  his  attitude 
from  the  first  had  been  one  of  sympathetic  discouragement. 
Susan  hit  off  his  manner  perfectly  in  an  earlier  letter: 

1 '  '  My  dear  Susan !  You  can  write  very  delicate,  distinc- 
tive verse,  no  doubt,  and  all  that — and  of  course  there's  a 
fairly  active  market  for  verse  nowadays,  and  I  can  put  you 
in  touch  with  some  little  magazines,  d  cote,  that  print  such 
things,  and  even  occasionally  pay  for  them.  They're  your 
field,  I'm  convinced.  But,  frankly,  I  can't  see  you  quite 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  143 

as  one  of  our  contributors — and  I  couldn't  pay  you  a 
kigher  compliment! 

"  'You  don't  suppose,  do  you,  I  sit  here  like  an  old- 
fashioned  editor,  reading  voluntary  contributions?  No, 
my  dear  girl;  I  have  a  small,  well-broken  staff  of  writers, 
and  I  tell  them  what  to  write.  If  I  find  myself,  for  ex- 
ample, with  a  lot  of  parade  interiors  taken  in  expensive 
homes,  I  select  four  or  five,  turn  'em  over  to  Abrainovitz, 
and  tell  him  to  do  us  something  on  "The  More  Dignified 
Dining-Room"  or  "The  Period  Salon,  a  Study  in  Rest- 
fulness.  ' '  Abramovitz  knows  exactly  what  to  say,  and  how 
to  point  the  snobbish-but-not-too-snobbish  captions  and 
feature  the  best  names.  I've  no  need  to  experiment,  you 
see.  I  count  on  Abramovitz.  Just  so  with  other  matters. 
Here's  an  article,  now,  on  "The  Flaunting  Paeony." 
Skeat  did  that,  of  course.  It's  signed  "Winifred  Snow" 
— all  his  flower-and-sundial  stuff  is — and  it  couldn  't  be  bet- 
ter !  I  don 't  even  have  to  read  it. 

' '  '  Well,  there  you  are !  I  'm  simply  a  purveyor  of  stan- 
dardized goods  in  standardized  packages.  Dull  work,  but 
it  pays. ' 

"  'Exactly!'  I  struck  in.  'It  pays!  That's  why  I'm 
interested.  Sister  and  Togo  and  I  need  the  money!'  ' 

As  for  the  brilliant,  intertwined  circles  frequented  by 
Maltby  as  a  social  being,  within  which,  he  hoped  to  per- 
«uade  Susan,  lay  true  freedom,  while  habit  slyly  bound  her 
with  invisible  chains — well,  they  are  a  little  difficult  to  de- 
scribe. Taken  generally,  we  may  think  of  them  as  the 
Artistic  Smart  Set.  Maltby 's  acquaintance  was  wide,  pene- 
trating in  many  directions ;  but  he  felt  most  at  home  among 
those  iridescent  ones  of  earth  whose  money  is  as  easy  as 
their  morals,  and  whose  ruling  passion  for  amusement  is  at 
least  directed  by  aesthetic  sensibilities  and  vivacious  brains. 

Within  Maltby 's  intersecting  circles  were  to  be  found, 
then,  many  a  piquant  contrast,  many  an  anomalous  com- 
bination. There  the  young,  emancipated  society  matron,  of 
fattest  purse  and  slenderest  figure,  expressed  her  sophisti- 
cated paganism  through  interpretative  dancing;  and  there 


144  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

the  fashionable  painter  of  portraits,  solidly  arrived,  ex- 
hibited her  slender  figure  on  a  daring  canvas — made  pos- 
sible by  the  fatness  of  her  purse — at  one  of  his  peculiarly 
intimate  studio  teas.  There  the  reigning  ingenue,  whose 
graceful  diablerie  in  imagined  situations  on  the  stage  was 
equalled  only  by  her  roguish  effrontery  in  more  real,  if 
hardly  less  public  situations  off,  played  up  to  the  affluent 
amateur — patron  of  all  arts  that  require  an  unblushing  co- 
operation from  pretty  young  women.  There,  in  short,  all 
were  welcome  who  liked  the  game  and  were  not  hampered 
in  playing  it  by  dull  inhibitions,  material  or  immaterial. 
It  was  Bohemia  de  luxe — Bohemia  in  the  same  sense  that 
Marie  Antoinette's  dairy-farm  was  Arcady. 

That  Susan — given  her  doting  guardian,  her  furs,  her 
Chow,  her  shadowy-gleaming,  imaginative  charm,  her  sharp 
audacities  of  speech — would  bring  a  new  and  seductive 
personality  to  this  perpetual  carnival  was  Maltby  's  dream ; 
she  was  predestined — he  had  long  suspected  the  tug  of 
that  fate  upon  her — to  shine  there  by  his  side.  He  best 
could  offer  the  cup,  and  her  gratitude  for  its  heady  drafts 
of  life  would  be  merely  his  due.  It  was  an  exciting 
prospect;  it  promised  much;  and  it  only  remained  to  in- 
toxicate Susan  with  the  wine  of  an  unguessed  freedom. 
This,  Maltby  fondly  assured  himself,  would  prove  no  diffi- 
cult task.  Life  was  life,  youth  was  youth,  joy  was  joy; 
their  natural  affinities  were  all  on  his  side  and  would  play 
into  his  practiced  hands. 

Doubtless  Phil  and  I  must  have  agreed  with  him — from 
how  differently  anxious  a  spirit ! — but  all  three  of  us  would 
then  have  proved  quite  wrong.  To  intoxicate  Susan, 
Maltby  did  find  a  difficult,  in  the  end  an  impossible,  task. 
He  took  her — not  unwilling  to  enter  and  appraise  any  cir- 
cle from  high  heaven  to  nether  hell — to  all  the  right,  magi- 
cal places,  exposed  her  to  all  the  heady  influences  of  his 
world ;  and  she  found  them  enormously  stimulating — to  her 
sense  of  the  ironic.  Maltby 's  sensuous,  quick-witted  friends 
simply  would  not  come  true  for  Susan  when  she  first  moved 
among  them;  they  were  not  serious  about  anything  but  re- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  145 

fined  sensation  and  she  could  not  take  their  refined  sensa- 
tions seriously;  but  for  a  time  they  amused  her,  and  she 
relished  them  much  as  Charles  Lamb  relished  the  belles 
and  rakes  of  Restoration  Drama:  "They  are  a  world  of 
themselves  almost  as  much  as  fairyland." 

To  their  intimate  dinners,  their  intimate  musical  eve- 
nings, their  intimate  studio  revels — she  came  on  occasion 
with  Maltby  as  to  a  play : ' '  altogether  a  speculative  scene  of 
things."  She  could,  in  those  early  weeks,  have  borrowed 
Lamb's  words  for  her  own  comedic  detachment:  "We  are 
amongst  a  chaotic  people.  We  are  not  to  judge  them  by 
our  usages.  No  reverend  institutions  are  insulted  by  their 
proceedings — for  they  have  none  among  them.  No  peace 
of  families  is  violated — for  no  family  ties  exist  among 
them.  ...  No  deep  affections  are  disquieted,  no  holy-wed- 
lock bands  are  snapped  asunder — for  affection 's  depth  and 
wedded  faith  are  not  the  growth  of  that  soil.  There  is 
neither  right  nor  wrong.  ...  Of  what  consequence  is  it  to 
Virtue  or  how  is  she  at  all  concerned  ?  .  .  .  The  whole  thing 
is  a  passing  pageant." 

It  is  probable  that  Maltby  at  first  mistook  her  interest 
in  the  spectacle  for  the  preliminary  stirrings  of  its  spell 
within  her ;  but  he  must  soon  have  been  aware — for  he  had 
intelligence — that  Susan  was  not  precisely  flinging  herself 
among  his  maskers  with  the  thrilled  abandon  that  would 
betoken  surrender.  She  was  not  afraid  of  these  clever, 
beauty-loving  maskers,  some  of  whom  bore  celebrated 
names;  it  was  not  timidity  that  restrained  her;  she,  too, 
loved  beauty  and  lilting  wit  and  could  feel  joyously  at 
ease  among  them — for  an  hour  or  two — once  in  a  while. 
But  to  remain  permanently  within  those  twining  circles, 
held  to  a  limited  dream,  when  she  was  conscious  of  wilder, 

freer,  more  adventurous  spaces  without !  Why  should 

she  narrow  her  sympathies  like  that?  It  never  occurred 
to  her  as  a  temptation  to  do  so.  She  had  drunk  of  a 
headier  cup,  and  had  known  a  vaster  intoxication.  From 
the  magic  circle  of  her  cedar  trees,  in  that  lonely  aban- 
doned field  back  of  Mount  Carinel,  the  imaginations  of  her 


146  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

heart  had  long  since  streamed  outward  beyond  all  such 
passing  pageants,  questing  after  a  dream  that  does  not 
pass.  .  .  . 

No  gilded  nutshell  could  bound  her  now;  she  could  be- 
come the  slave  of  no  intersected  ring.  .  .  .  Lesser  incan- 
tations were  powerless. 

So  much,  then,  for  my  own  broad  annotation  of  Susan's 
letter  to  Phil !  But  I  leave  you  with  generalizations,  when 
your  interest  is  in  concrete  fact.  Patience.  In  my  too 
fumbling  way  I  am  ready  for  you  there,  as  well. 

VI 

SUSAN  TO  JIMMY 

"I  suppose  you'd  really  like  to  know  what  IVe  lately 
been  up  to;  but  I  hardly  know  myself.  It's  absurd,  of 
course,  but  I  almost  think  I'm  having  a  weeny  little  fit  of 
the  blues  to-night — not  dark-blue  devils  exactly — say,  light- 
blue  gnomes!  I  hate  being  pushed  about,  and  things  have 
pushed  me  about,  rather.  It 's  that,  I  think.  There 's  been, 
too  much — of  everything — somehow 

"You  see,  my  social  life  just  now  is  divided  into  three 
parts,  like  all  Gaul,  and  as  my  business  opportunities — 
Midas  forgive  them! — have  all  come  out  of  my  social  con- 
tacts, I'll  have  to  begin  with  them.  Maltby's  the  golden 
key  to  the  first  part ;  Mr.  Heywood  Sampson,  the  great  old- 
school  publisher  and  editor-author,  is  the  iron  key  to  the 
second ;  and  chance — our  settling  down  here  on  the  fringes 
of  Greenwich  Village — is  the  skeleton  key  to  the  third. 

"I  seem  to  be  getting  all  Gaul  mixed  up  with  Blue- 
beard's closets  and  things,  but  I'll  try  to  straighten  my 
kinky  metaphors  out  for  you,  Jimmy,  if  it  takes  me  all 
night.  But  I  assume  you're  more  or  less  up  to  date  on 
me,  since  I  find  you  all  most  brazenly  hand  me  round,  and 
since  I  wrote  Phil — and  got  severely  scolded  in  return; 
deserved  it,  too — all  about  Maltby's  patiently  snubbing  me 
as  a  starving  author  and  impatiently  rushing  me  as  a  pos- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  147 

sible  member  for  his  Emancipated  Order  of  ^Esthetic  May- 
Flies — I  call  it  his,  for  he  certainly  thinks  of  it  that  way. 
Now — Maltby  and  I  have  not  precisely  quarreled,  but  the 
north  wind  doth  blow  and  we've  already  had  snow  enough 
to  cool  his  enthusiasm.  The  whole  thing 's  unpleasant ;  but 
I've  learned  something.  Result — my  occasional  fl  titterings 
among  the  Esthetic  May-Flies  grow  beautifully  less. 
They'd  cease  altogether  if  I  hadn't  made  friends — to  call 
them  that — with  a  May -Fly  or  two. 

"One  of  them's  the  novelist,  Clifton  Young,  a  May-Fly 
at  heart — but  there's  a  strain  of  Honeybee  in  his  blood 
somewhere.  It's  an  unhappy  combination — all  the  talents 
and  few  of  the  virtues;  but  I  like  him  in  spite  of  himself. 
For  one  thing,  he  doesn't  pose;  and  he  can  write!  He's  a 
lost  soul,  though — thinks  life  is  a  tragic  farce.  Almost  all 
the  May-Flies  try  to  think  that ;  it 's  a  sort  of  guaranty  of 
the  last  sophistication;  but  it's  genuine  with  Clifton,  he 
must  have  been  born  thinking  it.  He  doesn't  ask  for 
sympathy,  either ;  if  he  did,  I  couldn  't  pity  him — and  get 
jeered  at  wittily  for  my  pains! 

' '  Then  there 's  Mona  Leslie,  who  might  have  been  a  true 
Honeybee  if  everybody  belonging  to  her  hadn't  died  too 
soon,  leaving  her  hopeless  numbers  of  millions.  Mona,  for 
some  reason,  has  taken  a  passing  fancy  to  me ;  all  her  fan- 
cies pass.  She  sings  like  an  angel,  and  might  have  made 
a  career — if  it  had  seemed  worth  while.  It  never  has. 
Nothing  has,  but  vivid  sensation — from  ascetic  religion  to 
sloppy  love;  and,  at  thirty,  she's  exhausted  the  whole  show. 
So  she  spends  her  time  now  in  a  mad  duel  with  boredom. 
Poor  woman !  Luckily  the  fairies  gave  her  a  selfishly  kind 
heart,  and  there's  a  piece  of  it  left,  I  think.  It  may  even 
win  the  duel  for  her  in  the  end.  More  and  more  she's  the 
reckless  patron  of  all  the  arts,  almost  smothering  ennui 
under  her  benefactions.  She'd  smother  poor  me,  too,  if  I'd 
let  her ;  but  I  can 't ;  I  'm  either  not  brazen  enough  or  not 
Christian  enough  to  let  her  patronize  me  for  her  own 
amusement.  And  that's  her  one  new  sensation  for  the  last 
three  years! 


148  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"Still,  I've  one  thing  to  thank  her  for,  and  I  wish  I 
could  feel  grateful.  She  introduced  me,  at  one  of  her 
Arabian-Nightish  soirees  -musicales,  to  Hadow  Bury,  pro- 
prietor of  Whim,  the  smarty-party  weekly  review.  In  two 
years  it's  made  a  sky-rocketing  success,  by  printing  the 
harum-scarumest  possible  comment  on  all  the  social  and 
aesthetic  fads  and  freaks  of  the  day — just  the  iris  froth 
of  the  wave,  that  and  that  only.  Hadow 's  a  big,  black, 
bleak  man-mountain.  You'd  take  him  for  an  undertaker 
by  special  appointment  to  coal-beef -and-iron  kings.  You'd 
never  suspect  him  of  having  capitalized  the  Frivolous. 
But  he's  found  it  means  bagfuls  of  reelers  for  him,  so  he 
takes  it  seriously.  He's  after  the  goods.  He  gets  and  de- 
livers the  goods,  no  matter  what  they  cost.  He's  ready  to 
pay  any  price  now  for  a  new  brand  of  cerebral  champagne. 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  what  he  was  when  Mona  casually 
dropped  me  beside  him,  but  he  loomed  so  big  and  black 
and  bleak  he  frightened  me — till  my  thoughts  chattered! 
I  rattled  on — like  this,  Jimmy — only  not  because  I  wanted 
to,  but  because  having  madly  started  I  didn't  know  how 
to  stop.  I  made  a  fool  of  myself — utter;  with  the  result 
that  he  detected  a  slightly  different  flavor  in  my  folly,  a 
possibly  novel  bouquet — let's  call  it  the  'Birch  Street  bou- 
quet.' At  any  rate,  he  finally  silenced  me  to  ask  whether 
I  could  write  as  I  talked,  and  I  said  I  hoped  not ;  and  he 
looked  bleaker  and  blacker  than  ever  and  said  that  was  the 
worst  of  it,  so  few  amusing  young  women  could !  It  seemed 
to  be  one  of  the  more  annoying  laws  of  Nature. 

"The  upshot  was,  I  found  out  all  about  him  and  his 
ambitions  for  Whim;  and  the  fantastic  upshot  of  that  was, 
I'm  now  doing  a  nonsense  column  a  week  for  him — have 
been  for  the  past  five — and  getting  fifty  dollars  a  week  for 
my  nonsense,  too!  I  sign  the  thing  "Dax" — a  signature 
invented  by  shutting  both  eyes  and  punching  at  my  type- 
writer three  times,  just  to  see  what  would  happen.  "Dax" 
happened,  and  I'm  to  be  allowed  to  burble  on  as  him — I 
think  Dax  is  a  him — for  ten  weeks ;  then,  if  my  stuff  goes, 
catches  on,  gets  over — I'm  to  have  a  year's  contract.  And 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  149 

farewell  to  double-room-and-alcove  for  aye!  Else,  fare- 
well Whim!  So  it  must  get  over — I'm  determined !  I  stick 
at  nothing.  I  even  test  my  burble  on  poor  Sister  every 
week  before  sending  it  in.  If  she  smiles  sadly,  twice,  I 
seal  up  the  envelope  and  breathe  again. 

"That's  my  bird  in  the  hand,  Jimmy — a  sort  of  crazily 
screaming  jay — but  I  mustn't  let  it  escape. 

"There's  another  bird,  though.  A  real  bluebird,  still 
in  the  bush — and  oh,  so  shy!  And  he  lures  me  into  the 
second  and  beautifulest  part  of  all  Gaul 

"It's  no  use,  I'm  dished!  Sister  says  no  one  ever  wrote 
or  read  such  a  monstrous  letter,  and  commands  me  to  stop 
now  and  go  to  bed.  There's  a  look  in  her  eye — she  means 
it.  Good-night  and  good  luck — I  '11  tell  you  about  my  other 
two  parts  of  Gaul  as  soon  as  I  can,  unless  you  wire  me — 
collect — '  Cut  it  out ! '  Or  unless  you  run  down — you  never 
have — and  learn  of  them  that  way.  Why  not — soon?" 

vn 

Jimmy  Kane  took  the  hint,  or  obeyed  the  open  request, 
in  Susan 's  letter  and  went  down  to  New  York  for  the  week- 
end ;  and  on  the  following  Monday  Miss  Goucher  wrote  her 
first  considerable  letter  to  me.  It  was  a  long  letter,  for  her, 
written — recopied,  I  fancy — in  precise  script,  though  it 
would  have  been  a  mere  note  for  Susan. 

My  dear  Mr.  Hunt:  I  promised  to  let  you  know  from 
time  to  time  the  exact  truth  about  our  experiment.  It  is 
already  a  success  financially.  Susan  is  now  earning  from 
sixty  to  seventy  dollars  a  week,  with  every  prospect  of 
earning  substantially  more  in  the  near  future.  Her  satiri- 
cal paragraphs  and  verses  in  "Whim"  are  quoted  and 
copied  everywhere.  They  do  not  seem  to  me  quite  the 
Susan  I  love,  but  then,  I  am  not  a  clever  person ;  and  it  is 
undeniable  that  "Who  is  Dax?"  is  being  asked  now  on 
every  hand.  If  this  interest  continues,  I  am  assured  it 


150  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

can  only  mean  fame  and  fortune.     I  am  very  proud  of 
Susan,  as  you  must  be. 

But,  Mr.  Hunt,  there  is  another  side  to  my  picture.  In 
alluding  to  it  I  feel  a  sense  of  guilt  toward  Susan ;  I  know 
she  would  not  wish  me  to  do  so.  Yet  I  feel  that  I  must.  If 
I  may  say  so  to  you,  Susan  has  quickened  in  me  many 
starved  affections,  and  they  all  center  in  her.  In  this,  may 
I  not  feel  without  offense  that  we  are  of  one  mind  ? 
•;  If  I  had  Susan 's  pen  I  could  tell  you  more  clearly  why  1 
am  troubled.  I  lack  her  gift,  which  is  also  yours,  of  ex- 
pressing what  I  feel  is  going  on  secretly  in  another's  mind. 
Mr.  Phar  and  a  Mr.  Young,  a  writer,  have  been  giving 
Susan  some  cause  for  annoyance  lately ;  but  that  is  not  it. 
Mr.  Hunt,  she  is  deeply  unhappy.  She  would  deny  it, 
even  to  you  or  me ;  but  it  is  true. 

My  mind  is  too  commonplace  for  this  task.  If  my  at- 
tempt to  explain  sounds  crude,  please  forgive  it  and  supply 
what  is  beyond  me. 

I  can  only  say  now  that  when  I  once  told  you  Susan 
could  stand  alone,  I  was  mistaken.  In  a  sense  she  can.  If 
her  health  does  not  give  way,  life  will  never  beat  her  down. 
But — there  are  the  needs  of  women,  older  than  art.  They 
tear  at  us,  Mr.  Hunt ;  at  least  while  we  are  young.  I  could 
not  say  this  to  you,  but  I  must  manage  somehow  to  write 
it.  I  do  not  refer  to  passion,  taken  by  itself.  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  shocked,  Mr.  Hunt,  to  find  that  many  brilliant 
women  to-day  have  advanced  beyond  certain  boundaries  so 
long  established.  You  will  understand. 

A  woman's  need  is  greater  than  passion,  greater  even 
than  motherhood.  It  is  so  hard  for  me  to  express  it.  But 
she  can  only  find  rest  when  these  things  are  not  lived  sepa- 
rately; when,  with  many  other  elements,  they  build  up  a 
living  whole — what  we  call  a  home.  How  badly  I  put  it; 
for  I  feel  so  much  more  than  the  conventional  sentiments. 
"Will  you  understand  me  at  all  if  I  say  that  Susan  is  home- 
sick— for  a  home  she  has  never  known  and  may  never  be 
privileged  to  know?  "With  all  her  insight  I  think  she 
doesn  't  realize  this  yet ;  but  I  once  suffered  acutely  in  this 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  151 

way,  and  it  perhaps  gives  me  the  right  to  speak.    Of  course 
I  may  be  quite  wrong.    I  am  more  often  wrong  than  right. 

I  venture  to  inclose  a  copy  of  some  lines,  rescued  last 
week  from  our  scrap-basket.  I'm  not  a  critic,  but  am  I 
wrong  in  thinking  it  would  have  been  a  pity  to  burn  them  ? 
As  they  are  not  in  free  verse,  which  I  do  not  appreciate  as 
I  should,  they  affected  me  very  much ;  and  I  feel  they  will 
tell  you,  far  more  than  my  letter,  why  I  am  a  little  worried 
about  Susan. 

Young  Mr.  Kane  informed  me,  when  he  was  here  on 
Sunday,  that  you  and  Professor  Farmer  are  well.  He 
seems  a  nice  boy,  though  still  a  little  crude  perhaps ;  noth- 
ing offensive.  I  am  confined  to  the  room  to-day  by  a 
slight  cold  of  no  consequence;  I  hope  I  may  not  pass  it 
on  to  Susan.  Kindly  give  my  love  to  Sonia,  if  you  should 
see  her,  and  to  little  Ivan.  I  trust  the  new  housekeeper 
I  obtained  for  you  is  reasonably  efficient,  and  that  Tumps 
is  not  proving  too  great  a  burden.  I  am, 

Respectfully  yours, 

MALVINA  GOUCHER. 

The  inclosed  "copy  of  some  lines"  affected  me  quite  as 
much  as  they  had  Miss  Goucher,  and  it  was  inconceivable 
to  me  that  Susan,  having  written  them,  could  have  tossed 
them  away.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  not.  Like  Calais 
in  the  queen's  heart,  they  were  engraven  in  her  own.  They 
were  too  deeply  hers ;  she  had  meant  merely  to  hide  tl  em 
from  the  world ;  and  it  is  even  now  with  a  curious  reluc- 
tance that  I  give  them  to  you  here.  The  lines  bore  no 
title,  but  I  have  ventured,  with  Susan's  consent,  to  call 
them 

MENDICANTS 

We  who  are  poets  beg  the  gods 

Shamelessly  for  immortal  bliss, 
While  the  derisive  years  with  rods 

Flay  us;  nor  silvery  Artemis 
Hearkens,  nor  Cypris  bends,  nor  shet 


152  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

The  grave  Athena  with  gray  eyes. 

Were  they  not  heartless  would  they  be 

Deaf  to  the  hunger  of  our  cries  f 

We  are  the  starving  ones  of  clay, 
Famished  for  deathless  love,  no  less. 

Oh,  but  the  gods  are  far  and  fey, 
Shut  in  their  azure  palaces! 

Oh,  but  the  gods  are  far  and  fey, 
Blind  to  the  rags  of  our  distress! 

We  pine  on  crumbs  they  flick  away; 
Brief  beauty,  and  much  weariness. 

And  the  night  I  read  these  lines  a  telegram  came  to  me 
from  New  York,  signed  "Lucette  Arthur,"  announcing 
that  Gertrude  was  suddenly  dead.  .  .  . 


THE  FIFTH  CHAPTER 


I  AM  an  essayist,  if  anything,  trying  to  tell  Susan 's  story, 
and  telling  it  badly,  I  fear,  for  lack  of  narrative  skill. 
So  it  is  with  no  desire  to  prolong  cheaply  a  possible  £oint 
of  suspense  that  I  must  double  back  now  before  I  can  go 
forward.  My  personal  interest  centers  so  entirely  in  Susan 
herself,  in  the  special  qualities  of  her  mind  and  heart,  that 
I  have  failed  to  bring  in  certain  stiff  facts — essential,  alas, 
to  all  further  progress.  A  practiced  novelist,  handling  this 
purely  biographic  material — such  a  man  as  Clifton  Young 
— would  quietly  have  "planted"  these  facts  in  their  due 
order,  thus  escaping  my  present  embarrassment.  But  in- 
deed I  am  approaching  a  cruel  crisis  in  Susan's  life  and 
in  the  lives  of  those  dearest  to  her;  a  period  of  sheer  cir- 
cumstantial fatality;  one  of  those  incursions  of  mad  coin- 
cidence, of  crass  melodrama,  which — with  a  brutal,  ironic, 
improbability,  as  if  stage-managed  by  an  anarchistic  fiend 
of  the  pit — bursts  through  some  fine-spun,  geometrical  web 
of  days,  leaving  chaos  behind;  and  I  am  ill-equipped  to 
deal  with  this  chance  destruction,  this  haphazard  wan- 
tonness. ' 

Even  could  I  merely  have  observed  it  from  the  outside, 
with  jssthetic  detachment,  it  would  baffle  me  now ;  I  should 
find  it  too  crude  for  art,  too  arbitrary.  It  is  not  in  my  line. 
But  God  knows  the  victim  of  what  seems  an  insane  break 
in  Nature  is  in  no  mood  for  art-,  he  can  do  little  more 
than  cry  out  or  foolishly  rail! 

Jimmy  returned  from  his  excursion  to  New  York  on  the 
Sunday  evening  preceding  Miss  Goucher  's  letter.  She  must 

153 


154  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

have  been  at  work  on  it  the  next  evening  when  Phil  brought 
him  to  dine  with  me.  It  was  our  deliberate  purpose  to 
draw  him  out,  track  his  shy  impressions  of  Susan  and  of 
her  new  life  in  her  new  world.  But  it  was  hard  going  at 
first ;  for  ten  minutes  or  so  we  bagged  little  but  the  ordi- 
nary Jimmyesque  cliches.  He  had  had  a  great  time,  etc., 
etc.  .  .  . 

Matters  improved  with  the  roast.  It  then  appeared  that 
he  had  lightly  explored  with  Susan  the  two-thirds  of  Gaul 
omitted  from  her  letter.  He  had  called  with  her  on  Hey- 
wood  Sampson,  and  fathomed  Susan's  allusion  to  the  shy 
bluebird.  Mr.  Sampson,  he  assured  us,  was  a  fine  old  boy 
— strong  for  Susan  too!  He'd  read  a  lot  of  her  poems 
and  things  and  was  going  to  bring  out  the  poems  for  her 
right  away.  But  the  bluebird  in  the  bush  had  to  do  with 
a  pet  scheme  of  his  for  a  weekly  critical  review  of  a  differ- 
ent stamp  from  Hadow  Bury 's  Whim.  Solider,  Jimmy  im- 
agined; safe  and  sane — the  real  thing!  If  Mr.  Sampson 
should  decide  to  launch  it — he  was  still  hesitating  over  the 
business  outlook — Susan  was  to  find  a  place  on  his  staff. 

Mr.  Sampson,  Jimmy  opined,  had  the  right  idea  about 
things  in  general.  He  didn't  like  Susan's  quick  stuff  in 
Whim;  thought  it  would  cheapen  her  if  she  kept  at  it  too 
long.  And  Mr.  Sampson  didn't  approve  of  Susan's  re- 
maining third  of  Gaul,  either — her  Greenwich  Village 
friends.  Not  much  wonder,  Jimmy  added;  Susan  had 
trotted  him  round  to  three  or  four  studios  and  places,  and 
they  were  a  funny  job  lot.  Too  many  foreigners  among 
them  for  him ;  they  talked  too  much ;  and  they  pawed.  But 
some  nice  young  people,  too.  Most  of  them  were  young — 
and  not  stuck  up.  Friendly.  Sort  of  alive — interested  in 
everything — except,  maybe,  being  respectable.  Their  jokes, 
come  to  think  of  it,  were  all  about  being  respectable — kid- 
ding everyday  people  who  weren't  up  to  the  latest  ideas. 
There  was  a  lot  of  jabber  one  place  about  the  "(Edipus 
Complex,"  for  example,  but  he  didn't  connect  at  all.  He 
had  his  own  idea — surely,  not  of  the  latest — that  a  lot 
t)f  the  villagers  might  feel  differently  when  they  began  tr 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  155 

make  good  and  started  their  bank  accounts.  But  Susan 
was  on  to  them,  anyway,  far  more  than  they  were  on  to 
her!  She  liked  them,  though — in  spite  of  Mr.  Sampson; 
didn't  fall  for  their  craziest  ways  or  notions  of  course, 
but  was  keen  about  their  happy-go-lucky  side — their  pep! 
Besides,  they  weren't  all  alike,  naturally.  Take  the  pick 
of  them,  the  ones  that  did  things  instead  of  posing  round 
and  dressing  the  part,  and  Jimmy  could  see  they  might  be 
there.  At  least,  they  were  on  their  way — like  Susan. 

This  was  all  very  well,  so  far  as  it  went;  but  we  had 
felt,  Phil  and  I,  a  dumb  undercurrent  struggling  to  press 
upward  into  speech,  and  after  dinner  before  the  fire,  we 
did  our  best  to  help  Jimmy  free  its  course.  Gradually  it 
became  apparent;  it  rather  trickled  than  gushed  forth. 
Jimmy  was  bothered,  more  than  bothered ;  there  was  some- 
thing, perhaps  there  were  several  things,  on  his  mind.  We 
did  not  press  him,  using  subtler  methods,  biding  our  time ; 
and  little  by  little  Jimmy  oozed  toward  the  full  revelation 
of  an  uneasy  spirit. 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Phar?"  Phil  asked. 

"No,"  said  Jimmy,  his  forehead  knotting  darkly;  "I 
guess  it's  a  good  thing  I  didn't  too!" 

"Why?" 

"Well,  that  letter  I  had  from  Susan — the  one  I  showed 
you,  Mr.  Hunt — mentioned  some  unpleasantness  with  Mr. 
Phar;  and  all  Saturday  afternoon  while  she  was  trotting 
me  round,  I  could  see  she'd  been  worrying  to  herself  a 
good  deal." 

"Worrying?" 

"Yes.  Whenever  she  thought  I  wasn't  paying  attention 
her  face  would  go — sort  of  dead  tired  and  sad — all  used 
up.  I  can't  describe  it.  And  one  or  two  remarks  she 
dropped  didn't  sound  as  happy  as  she  meant  them  to. 
Then,  Sunday  morning,  she  had  to  get  some  work  done,  so 
I  took  Miss  Goucher  to  church.  I'm  supposed  to  be  a 
Catholic,  you  know;  but  I  guess  I'm  not  much  of  any* 
thing.  I'd  just  as  soon  go  to  one  kind  of  church  as  an. 
other,  if  the  music 's  good.  Anyway,  it  was  a  nice  morning 


156  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

and  Miss  Goucher  thought  I'd  like  to  see  the  Fifth  Ave- 
nue parade ;  so  we  walked  up  to  some  silk-stocking  church 
above  Thirty-fourth  Street,  where  they  have  a  dandy  choir ; 
and  back  again  afterwards.  I  stayed  at  the  Brevoort,  down 
near  them,  you  know;  and  Miss  Goucher  certainly  is  a 
peach.  We  got  along  fine.  And  I  found  out  from  her 
how  Mr.  Phar's  been  acting.  He's  a  bad  actor,  all  right. 
I'm  just  as  glad  I  didn't  run  into  him.  I  might  have  done 
something  foolish." 

"What,  for  instance?"  I  suggested. 

"Well,"  muttered  Jimmy,  "there's  some  things  I  can't 
Stand.  I  might  have  punched  his  head. '  * 

Phil  whistled  softly. 

"He's  not  what  I  call  a  white  man,"  explained  Jimmy, 
'dogged  and  slow,  as  if  to  justify  his  vision  of  assault. 
"He's  a  painted  pup." 

"'Come,  Jimmy!"  Phil  commanded.  "Out  with  it! 
Hunt  and  I  know  he 's  been  annoying  Susan,  but  that 's  all 
we  know.  I  supposed  he  might  have  been  pressing  his  at- 
tentions too  publicly.  If  it's  more  than  that " 

There  was  an  unusual  sternness  in  Phil's  eye.  Jimmy 
appealed  from  it  to  mine,  but  in  vain. 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Hunt,"  he  blurted,  "Susan's  all  right, 
of  course — and  so 's  Miss  Goucher !  They  've  got  their  eyes 
open.  And  maybe  it's  not  up  to  me  to  say  anything.  But 
if  I  was  in  your  place,  I'd  feel  like  giving  two  or  three 
people  down  there  a  piece  of  my  mind!  Susan  wouldn't 
thank  me  for  saying  so,  I  guess;  she's  modern — she  likes 
to  be  let  alone.  Why,  she  laughed  at  me  more  than  once 
for  getting  sort  of  hot !  And  I  know  I  've  a  bunch  to  learn 
yet.  But  all  the  same, ' '  he  pounded  on,  "  I  do  know  this : 
It  was  a  dirty  trick  of  Mr.  Phar's  not  to  stand  up  for 
Susan!" 

"Not  stand  up  for  her!  What  do  you  mean?"  Phil 
almost  barked. 

"Jimmy  means,  Phil,"  I  explained,  "that  some  rather 
vague  rumors  began  not  along  ago  to  spread  through 
Maltby's  crowd  in  regard  to  Susan — as  to  why  she  found 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  157 

it  advisable  to  leave  New  Haven.  Many  of  his  friends 
know  me,  of  course — or  know  Gertrude;  know  all  about 
us,  at  any  rate.  It's  not  very  remarkable,  then,  that 
Susan's  appearance  in  New  York — and  so  far  as  Maltby's 
May-Flies  know,  in  some  sense  under  his  wing — has  set 
tongues  wagging.  I  was  afraid  of  it;  but  I  know  Maltby's 
set  well  enough  to  know  that  to-day's  rumor,  unless  it's 
pretty  sharply  spiced,  is  soon  forgotten.  To-morrow's  is 
so  much  fresher,  you  see.  The  best  thing  for  innocent 
victims  to  do  is  to  keep  very  still.  And  then,  I  confess,  it 
seemed  to  me  unlikely  that  Maltby  would  permit  anything 
of  the  sort  to  go  too  far." 

I  saw  that  Jimmy  was  following  my  exposition  with  the 
Snost  painful  surprise.  Phil  grunted  disgustedly  as  I 
ended. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  much  knowledge  of  that  world,"  he 
said  deliberately,  "but  common  sense  tells  me  Maltby 
Phar  might  think  it  to  his  advantage  to  fan  the  flame  in- 
stead of  stamping  it  out.  I  may  be  unfair  to  him,  but  I  'm 
even  capable  of  supposing  he  touched  it  off  in  the  first 
place." 

"No,  Phil,"  I  objected,  "he  wouldn't  have  done  that. 
But  you  seem  to  be  right  about  his  failing  to  stamp  out 
the  sparks.  That's  what  you  meant  by  his  not  standing 
up  for  Susan,  isn't  it,  Jimmy?" 

The  boy's  face  was  a  study  in  unhappy  perplexity.  "I 
guess  I'm  like  Professor  Farmer!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm 
not  on  to  people  who  act  like  that.  But,  Mr.  Hunt,  you're 
dead  wrong — excuse  me,  sir!" 

"Go  on,  Jimmy." 

' '  Well,  I  mean — you  spoke  of  vague  rumors,  didn  't  you  ? 
They're  not  vague.  I  guess  Susan  hasn't  wanted  to  upset 
you.  Miss  Goucher  told  me  all  about  it,  and  she  wouldn't 
have  done  it,  would  she,  if  she  hadn't  hoped  I'd  bring  it 
straight  back  to  you?  I  guess  she  promised  Susan  not  to 
tell  you,  so  she  told  me.  That's  the  only  way  I  can  figure 
it,"  concluded  Jimmy. 


158  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Phil  was  grim  now.  "Give  us  your  facts,  Jimmy — ill  of 
them." 

"Yes,  sir.  There 's  a  Mr.  Young ;  he  writes  things.  He's 
clever.  They're  all  clever  down  there.  Well,  Mr.  Young's 
dead  gone  on  Susan;  but  then,  he's  the  kind  that's  always 
dead  gone  on  somebody.  It's  women  with  him,  you  see, 
sir.  Susan  understands.  It  don't  seem  right  she  should, 
somehow;  but — well,  Susan's  always  been  different  from 
most  girls.  At  least,  I  don't  know  many  girls " 

"Never  mind  that,"  prompted  Phil. 

"No,  sir.  Talking  about  things  like  this  always  rat- 
tles me.  I  can 't  help  it.  They  kind  of  stick  in  my  throat. 
"Well,  Mr.  Young  don't  want  to  marry  anybody,  but  he's 
been  making  love  to  Susan — trying  to.  He  had  the  wrong 
idea  about  her,  you  see;  and  Susan  saw  that,  too — saw  he 
thought  she  was  playing  him  for  a  poor  fish.  So — her  way. 
— out  she  comes  with  it  to  him,  flat.  And  he  gets  sore 
and  comes  back  at  her  with  what  he'd  heard."  Jimmy's 
handkerchief  was  pulled  out  at  this  point;  he  mopped  his 
brow.  "It  don't  feel  right  even  to  speak  of  lies  like  this 
about — any  decent  girl, ' '  he  mumbled. 

"No,"  Phil  agreed,  "it  doesn't.  But  there's  nothing 
for  it  now.  Get  it  said  and  done  with!" 

"Yes,  sir.  Mr.  Young  told  Susan  he  wasn't  a  fool;  he 
knew  she'd  been — what  she  shouldn't  be — up  here." 

"Hunt's  mistress,  you  mean?"  snapped  Phil. 

"Yes,  sir,"  whispered  Jimmy,  his  face  purple  with  agon- 
ized shame. 

"And  then?" 

"Susan's  a  wonder,"  continued  Jimmy,  taking  heart 
now  his  Rubicon  lay  behind  him.  -"Most  girls  would  have 
thrown  a  fit.  But  Susan  seems  to  feel  there's  a  lot  to  Mr. 
Young,  in  spite  of  all  that  rotten  side  of  him.  She  saw 
right  away  he  believed  that  about  her,  and  so  he  couldn't 
be  blamed  much  for  getting  sore.  Anyway,  he  must  have 
a  white  streak  in  him,  for  Susan  talked  to  him — the  way 
she  can — and  he  soon  realized  he  was  in  all  wrong.  But 
the  reason  he  was  in  wrong — that's  what  finished  things 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  159 

between  Susan  and  Mr.  Phar!  I  guess  you  won't  blame 
me  for  wanting  to  punch  his  head." 

' ' No, ' '  I  threw  in ;  "I  shouldn 't  blame  you  for  wanting 
to  punch  mine!" 

"Give  us  the  reason,  Jimmy,"  insisted  Phil,  his  grave, 
Indianlike  face  stiffened  to  a  mask. 

"Mr.  Young  didn't  get  that  lie  from  Mr.  Phar,"  ad- 
mitted Jimmy,  "but  he  did  take  it  straight  to  him,  when 
he  first  heard  it,  thinking  he  ought  to  know." 

"Good  God!"  I  cried.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  Maltby 
confirmed  it?" 

"Well,"  Jimmy  hesitated,  "it  seems  he  didn't  come  right 
out  and  say,  'Yes,  that's  so ! '  But  he  didn't  deny  it  either. 
Sort  of  shrugged  his  shoulders,  I  guess,  and  did  things 
with  his  eyebrows.  Whatever  he  did  or  didn  't,  Mr.  Young 
got  it  fastened  in  his  head  then  and  there  that  Susan " 

But  this  time  Jimmy  simply  couldn't  go  on;  the  words 
stuck  in  his  throat  and  stayed  there. 

Phil's  eyes  met  mine  and  held  them,  long. 

"Hunt,"  he  said  quietly  at  last,  "it's  a  fortunate  thing 
for  Susan — for  all  of  us — that  I  have  long  years  of  self- 
discipline  behind  me.  Otherwise,  I  should  go  to  New  York 
to-morrow,  find  Maltby  Phar,  and  shoot  him." 

Jimmy's  blue  eyes  flashed  toward  Phil  a  startled  but 
admiring  glance. 

' '  What  do  you  propose  to  do,  Hunt  ? ' '  demanded  Phil. 

"Think,"  I  replied;  "think  hard — think  things  through. 
Wednesday  morning  I  shall  leave  for  New  York." 


My  prophecy  was  correct.  Wednesday,  at  12.03  A.  M.,  I 
left  for  New  York,  in  response  to  the  shocking  telegram 
from  Lucette.  I  arrived  at  Gertrude's  address,  an  august 
apartment  house  on  upper  Park  Avenue,  a  little  before 
half-past  two,  dismissed  my  taxi  at  the  door,  noting  as  I 
did  so  a  second  taxi  standing  at  the  curb  just  ahead  of 
my  own,  and  was  admitted  to  the  dignified  public  entrance- 


160  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

hall  with  surprising  promptness,  considering  the  hour,  by 
the  mature  buttons  on  duty.  Buttons  was  a  man  nearing 
sixty,  at  a  guess,  of  markedly  Irish  traits,  and  he  was  un- 
expectedly wide-awake.  "When  I  gave  him  my  name,  and 
briefly  stated  the  reason  for  my  untimely  arrival,  his  deep- 
set  eyes  glittered  with  excited  curiosity,  while  he  drew 
down  deep  parallels  about  his  mouth  in  a  grimacing  at- 
tempt at  deepest  sympathy  and  profoundest  respect.  I 
questioned  him.  Several  persons  had  gone  up  to  Mrs. 
Hunt's  apartment,  he  solemnly  informed  me,  during  the 
past  two  hours.  He  believed  the  police  were  in  charge. 

"Police?"  I  exclaimed,  incredulous. 

He  believed  so.    He  would  say  no  more. 

"Take  me  up  at  once!"  I  snapped  at  him.  "Surely 
there's  a  mistake.  There  can  be  no  reason  for  police  inter- 
ference. ' ' 

His  eyes  glittered  more  shrewdly,  the  drawn  parallels 
deepened  yet  further  as  he  shot  back  the  elevator  door.  .  .  . 

It  was  unmistakably  a  police  officer  who  admitted  me 
for  the  first  and  last  time  to  Gertrude's  apartment.  On 
hearing  my  name  he  nodded,  then  closed  the  door  firmly 
in  the  face  of  Buttons,  who  had  lingered. 

"He's  been  warned  not  to  tip  off  the  press,"  said  the 
police  officer,  "but  it's  just  as  well  to  be  cautious." 

' '  The  press  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? "  I  asked,  still  incred- 
ulous. "Is  it  a  New  York  custom  for  police  to  enter  a 
house  of  mourning  ? "  I  was  aware  as  I  spoke  of  repressed 
voices  murmuring  in  an  adjoining  room. 

"I'm  Sergeant  Conlon,"  he  answered,  "in  charge  here 
till  the  coroner  comes.  He  should  make  it  by  seven.  If 
you're  the  poor  lady's  husband,  you'll  be  needed.  I'll 
have  to  detain  you." 

As  he  ended,  the  murmur  ended  in  the  adjoining  room, 
and  Lucette  walked  out  from  it.  She  was  wearing  an 
evening  gown — blue,  I  think — cut  very  low,  and  a  twin- 
kling ornament  of  some  kind  in  her  hair.  She  has  fine 
shoulders  and  beautiful  hair.  But  her  face  had  gone  hag- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  161 

gard;  she  had  been  weeping;  she  looked  ten  years  older 
than  when  I  had  last  seen  her. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  I  demanded  of  her.  "I 
know  nothing  but  your  telegram ! ' ' 

"Looks  like  murder,"  said  Sergeant  Conlon,  dry  and 
short.  "I  wouldn't  talk  much  if  I  was  you,  not  till  the 
coroner  gets  here.  I'm  bound  to  make  notes  of  what  you 
say." 

For  the  merest  hundredth  of  a  second  my  scalp  prickled, 
my  flesh  went  cold;  but  sheer  incredulity  was  still  strong 
upon  me ;  it  beat  back  the  horror.  It  was  simply  not  real, 
all  this. 

' '  At  least, ' '  I  managed,  ' '  give  me  facts — something ! ' ' 

Then  unreality  deepened  to  utter  nightmare,  passing  all 
bounds  of  reason.  Lueette  spoke,  and  life  turned  for  me 
to  sheer  prattling  madness ;  to  a  gibbering  grotesque ! 

"Susan  did  it!"  she  cried,  her  voice  going  high  and  stri- 
dent, slipping  from  all  control.  "I  know  it!  I  know  she 
did!  I  know  it!  Wasn't  she  with  her?  Alone  with  her? 
Who  else  could  have  done  it!  Who  else!  It's  in  her 
blood!" 

Well,  of  course,  when  a  woman  you  have  played  tag 
with  in  her  girlhood  goes  mad  before  you,  raves 

How  could  one  act  or  answer?  Then,  too,  she  had  van- 
ished ;  or  had  I  really  seen  her  in  the  flesh  at  all  ?  Really 
heard  her  voice,  crying  out.  .  .  . 

Sergeant  Conlon 's  voice  came  next;  short,  dry,  business- 
like. It  compelled  belief. 

"I've  a  question  or  two  for  you,  Mr.  Hunt.  This  way; 
steady!" 

I  felt  his  hand  under  my  elbow. 

Gertrude's  apartment  was  evidently  a  very  large  one; 
I  had  vaguely  the  sensation  of  passing  down  a  long  hall 
with  an  ell  in  it,  and  so  into  a  small,  simply  furnished,  but 
tasteful  room — the  sitting-room  for  her  maids,  as  I  later 
decided.  Sergeant  Conlon  shut  the  door  and  locked  it. 

"That's  not  to  keep  you  in,"  he  said;  "it's  to  keep 


162  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

others  out.  Sit  down,  Mr.  Hunt.  Smoke  somethin'.  Let's 
make  ourselves  comfortable." 

The  click  of  the  shot  bolt  in  the  lock  had  suddenly,  I 
found,  restored  my  power  of  coordination.  It  had  been 
like  the  sharp  handclap  which  brings  home  a  hypnotized 
subject  to  reason  and  reality.  I  was  now,  in  a  moment, 
not  merely  myself  again,  but  peculiarly  alert  and  steady  of 
nerve,  and  I  gave  matter-of-fact  assent  to  Sergeant  Con- 
Ion's  suggestions.  I  lit  a  cigarette  and  took  possession  of 
the  most  comfortable  chair.  Conlon  remained  standing. 
He  had  refused  my  cigarettes,  but  he  now  lighted  a  long, 
roughly  rolled  cigar. 

"I  get  these  from  a  fellow  over  on  First  Avenue,"  he 
explained  affably.  "He  makes  them  up  himself.  They're 
not  so  bad." 

I  attempted  a  smile  and  achieved  a  classic  reaction. 
"They  look — efficient,"  I  said.  "And  now,  sergeant,  what 
has  happened  here  ?  If  I  've  seemed  dazed  for  the  past  ten 
minutes,  it 's  little  wonder.  I  hurried  down  in  response  to  a 
telegram  saying  my  wife  .  .  .  You  know  we've  lived  apart 
for  years  ? ' '  He  grunted  assent  ..."  Saying  she  had  died 
suddenly.  And  I  walk  in,  unprepared,  on  people  who 
seem  to  me  to  be  acting  parts  in  a  crook  melodrama  of  the 
crudest  type.  Be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  what  it's  all 
about!" 

Sergeant  Conlon 's  gray-blue  eyes  fixed  me  as  I  spoke. 
He  was  a  big,  thickset  man,  nearing  middle  age ;  the  bruiser 
build,  physically;  but  with  a  solidly  intelligent-looking 
head  and  trustworthy  eyes. 

"I'll  do  that,  Mr.  Hunt,"  he  assented.  "I  got  Mrs. 
Arthur  to  send  you  that  telegram ;  but  I  '11  say  to  you  first- 
off,  now  you've  come,  I  don't  suspect  you  of  bein'  mixed 
up  in  this  affair.  When  I  shot  that  'It  looks  like  murder' 
at  you,  I  did  it  deliberate.  Well — that's  neither  here  nor 
there;  but  I  always  go  by  the  way  things  strike  me.  I 
have  to."  He  twirled  a  light  chair  round  to  face  me  and 
seated  himself,  leaning  a  little  forward,  his  great  stubby 
hands  propped  on  his  square  knees.  "Here's  the  facts, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  163 

then — what  we  know  are  facts:  It  seems,  Mrs.  Arthur — 
she's  been  visitin'  Mrs.  Hunt  for  two  weeks  past — she  went 
to  the  opera  to-night  with  a  Mr.  Phar ;  she  says  you  know 
him  well."  I  nodded.  "Durin'  the  last  act  of  the  opera 
they  were  located  by  somebody  in  the  office  down  there  and 
called  out  to  the  'phone — an  accident  to  Mrs.  Hunt — see? 
• — important."  Again  I  nodded.  "Mrs.  Arthur  answered 
the  'phone,  and  Doctor  Askew — he  lives  in  this  house,  but 
he's  Mrs.  Hunt's  reg'lar  doctor — well,  he  was  on  the  wire. 
He  just  told  her  to  hurry  back  as  fast  as  she  could — and 
she  and  Mr.  Phar  hopped  a  taxi  and  beat  it  up  here.  Doc- 
tor Askew  met  them  at  the  door,  and  a  couple  of  scared 
maids.  The  doc's  a  good  man — big  rep — one  of  the  best. 
He'd  taken  charge  and  sent  on  the  quiet  for  us.  I  got 
here  with  a  couple  of  my  men  soon  after  Mrs.  Arthur " 

"But " 

"I  know,  I  know!"  he  stopped  me  off.  "But  I  want 
you  to  get  it  all  straight.  Mrs.  Hunt,  sir,  was  killed — 
somehow — with  a  long,  sharp-pointed  brass  paper-knife — 
a  reg'lar  weapon.  I've  examined  it.  And  someone  drove 
that  thing — and  it  must 'a'  took  some  force,  believe  me! — 
right  through  her  left  eye  up  to  the  handle — a  full  inch 
of  metal  plumb  into  her  brain!" 

I  tried  to  believe  him  as  he  said  this ;  as,  seeing  my  blank- 
ness,  he  repeated  it  for  me  in  other  words.  For  the 
moment  it  was  impossible.  This  sort  of  thing  must  have 
happened  in  the  world,  of  course — at  other  times,  to 
other  people.  But  not  now,  not  to  Gertrude.  Certainly 
not  to  Gertrude;  a  woman  so  aloof,  so  exquisite,  self- 
sheltered,  class-sheltered,  not  merely  from  ugliness,  from 
the  harsh  and  brutal,  but  from  everything  in  life  even  verg- 
ing toward  vulgarity,  coarse  passion,  the  unrestrained.  .  .  . 

"That's  the  way  she  was  killed,  Mr.  Hunt — no  mistake. 
Now — who  did  it — and  why?  That's  the  point." 

At  my  elbow  was  a  table  with  a  reading-lamp  on  it, 
a  desk-set,  a  work-basket,  belonging,  I  suppose,  to  one  of 
the  maids,  and  some  magazines.  One  magazine  lay  just 
before  me — The  Reel  World — a  by-product  of  the  great 


164  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

moving-picture  industry.  I  had  been  staring — unseeingly, 
at  first — at  a  flamboyant  advertisement  on  its  cover  that 
clamored  for  my  attention,  until  now,  with  Conlon's  ques- 
tion, it  momentarily  gained  it.  The  release  of  a  magnifi- 
cent Superfeature  was  announced — in  no  quavering  terms. 
"The  Sins  of  the  Fathers"  it  shrieked  at  me!  "All  the 
thrilling  human  suspense";  "virile,  compelling";  "brim- 
ming over  with  the  kind  of  action  and  adventure  your 
audiences  crave";  "it  delivers  the  wallop!" 

Instantly,  with  a  new  force,  Lucette's  outcry  swept  back 
upon  me.  "Susan  did  it!  "Wasn't  she  with  her?  Alone 
with  her  ?  It's  in  her  blood!" 

And  at  once  every  faculty  of  my  spirit  leaped,  with  an 
almost  supernatural  acuteness,  to  the  defense  of  the  one 
being  on  earth  I  wholly  loved.  All  sense  of  unreality  van- 
ished. Now  for  it — since  it  must  be  so!  Susan  and  I,  if 
need  be,  against  the  world! 

"Go  on;  sergeant.     "What's  your  theory?" 

"Never  mind  my  theory!  I'd  like  to  get  yours  first — 
when  I've  given  you  all  I  know." 

' '  All  right,  then !    But  be  quick  about  it ! " 

"Easy,  Mr.  Hunt!  It's  not  as  simple  as  all  that.  Well, 
here  it  is:  Somewhere  round  ten  o'clock,  a  Miss  Blake — 
a  magazine-writer  livin'  on  West  10th  Street — your  ward, 
I  understand " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  she  calls  here,  alone,  and  asks  for  Mrs.  Arthur. 
Mrs.  Hunt's  personal  maid — English;  she's  no  chicken 
either — she  lets  her  in  and  says  Mrs.  Arthur  isn't  here — 
see — and  didn't  the  door  boy  tell  her  so?  Yes,  says  Miss 
Blake,  but  she'll  wait  for  her  anyway.  The  maid — name 
of  Ififley — says  she  thought  that  was  queer,  so  she  put  it  to 
Miss  Blake  that  maybe  she'd  better  ask  Mrs.  Hunt.  Oh, 
says  Miss  Blake,  I  thought  she  was  out,  too.  But  it  seems 
Mrs.  Hunt  was  in  her  private  sittin'  room;  she'd  had  a 
slight  bilious  attack,  and  she  'd  got  her  corsets  off  and  some- 
thin'  loose  on,  the  way  women  do,  and  was  all  set  for  a 
good  read.  So  the  maid  didn't  think  she  could  see  Miss 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  165 

Blake,  but  anyhow  she  took  in  her  card — and  Mrs.  Hunt 
decided  to  see  her.  That  maid  Iffley's  an  intelligent 
woman ;  she 's  all  broke  up,  but  she  ain  't  hysterical  like  the 
cook — who  didn't  see  nothin'  anyway.  The  parlor  maid 
was  havin'  her  night  off,  but  she's  back  now,  too,  and 
I've  got  'em  all  safe  where  they  can't  talk  to  outsiders, 
yet.  I  don't  want  this  thing  in  the  papers  to-morrow, 
not  if  I  can  help  it;  I  want  to  keep  it  dark  till  I  know 
better  where  I'm  gettin'  off." 

"Right!"  I  approved.     "What's  the  maid's  story?" 

"Well,  I've  questioned  her  pretty  close,  and  I  think 
it's  to  be  relied  on.  It  hits  me  that  way.  Mrs.  Hunt,  she 
says,  when  she  took  in  Miss  Blake's  card,  was  lyin'  on  her 
couch  in  a  long  trailin'  thing — what  ladies  call  a  negligee." 

"Yes?" 

"And  she  was  cuttin'  the  pages  of  some  new  book  with 
that  paper-knife  I  spoke  of." 

"Yes?" 

"And  her  dog,  a  runty  little  French  bull,  was  sleepin* 
<m  the  rug  beside  the  couch." 

"What  does  that  matter?" 

"More'n  you'd  think!  He's  got  a  broken  leg — provin' 
some  kind  of  a  struggle  must 'a' " 

"I  see.    Goon!" 

"Well,  Mrs.  Hunt,  the  maid  says,  looked  at  Miss  Blake's 
card  a  minute  and  didn't  say  any  thin'  special,  but  seemed 
kind  of  puzzled.  Her  only  words  was,  'Yes,  I  ought  to  see 
her.'  So  the  maid  goes  for  Miss  Blake  and  shows  her  to 
the  door,  which  she'd  left  ajar,  and  taps  on  it  for  her, 
and  Mrs.  Hunt  calls  to  come  in.  So  Miss  Blake  goes  in  and 
shuts  the  door  after  her,  and  the  maid  comes  back  to  this 
room  we're  in  now — it's  round  the  corner  of  the  hall  from 
Mrs.  Hunt's  room — see?  But  she  don't  much  more  than 
get  here — just  to  the  door — when  she  hears  the  dog  give  a 
screech  and  then  go  on  cryin'  like  as  if  he'd  been  hurt. 
The  cook  was  in  here,  too,  and  she  claims  she  heard  a  kind 
of  jarrin'  sound,  like  somethin'  heavy  fallin';  but  Iffley — 
that's  the  maid,  they  call  her  Iffley — says  all  she  noticed 


166  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

was  the  dog.  Anyway  she  listened  a  second,  then  she 
started  for  Mrs.  Hunt's  room — and  the  cook,  bein'  nervous, 
locked  herself  in  here  and  sat  with  her  eyes  tight  shut  and 
her  fingers  in  her  ears.  Fact.  She  says  she  can't  bear 
nothin'  disagreeable.  Too  bad  about  her,  ain't  it!" 

* '  And  then  ? "  I  protested,  crossly. 

""Well,  Mr.  Hunt,  when  the  Iffley  woman  turned  the 
hall  corner — the  door  of  your  poor  wife's  room  opens,  and 
Miss  Blake  walks  out.  She  had  the  paper-knife  in  her  right 
hand,  and  the  knife  and  her  hand  was  all  bloody ;  her  left 
hand  was  bloody  too ;  and  we  've  found  blood  on  her  clothes 
since.  There  was  a  queer,  vacant  look  about  her — that's 
what  the  maid  says.  She  didn't  seem  to  see  any  thin'. 
Naturally,  the  maid  was  scared  stiff — but  she  got  one  look 
in  at  the  door  anyway — that  was  enough  for  her.  She  was 
too  scared  even  to  yell,  she  says.  Paralyzed — she  just 
flopped  back  against  the  wall  half  faintin'. 

"And  then  she  noticed  somethin'  that  kind  of  brought 
her  to  again !  Mr.  Hunt,  that  young  woman,  Miss  Blake — • 
she'd  gone  quiet  as  you  please  and  curled  herself  down  on 
a  rug  in  the  hallway — that  bloody  knife  in  her  hand — and 
she  was  either  dead  or  fast  asleep !  And  then  the  doorbell 
rang,  and  the  Iffley  woman  says  she  don 't  know  how  she  got 
past  that  prostrate  figger  on  the  rug — her  very  words, 
Mr.  Hunt — that  prostrate  figger  on  the  rug — but  she  did, 
somehow ;  got  to  the  door.  And  when  she  opened  it,  there 
was  Doctor  Askew  and  the  elevator  man.  And  then  she 
passed  out.  And  I  must  say  I  don't  much  blame  her, 
considerin '. ' ' 

"Where's  Miss  Blake  now?"  I  sharply  demanded. 

"She's  still  fast  asleep,  Mr.  Hunt— to  call  it  that.  The 
doc  says  it's — somethin'  or  other — due  to  shock.  Samd 
as  a  trance." 

I  started  up.  "Where  is  Doctor  Askew?  I  must  see 
him  at  once ! ' ' 

"We've  laid  Miss  Blake  on  the  bed  in  Mrs.  Arthur's 
room.  He 's  observin '  her. ' ' 

"Take  me  there." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  167 

"111  do  that,  Mr.  Hunt.  But  I'll  ask  you  a  question 
first — straight.  Is  there  any  doubt  in  your  mind  that  that 
young  lady — your  ward — killed  Mrs.  Hunt  ? ' ' 

I  met  his  gray-blue  glance  directly,  pausing  a  moment 
before  I  spoke.  "Sergeant  Conlon,"  I  replied,  while  a 
meteor-shower  of  speculation  shot  through  me  with  the 
rapidity  of  light  waves,  "there  is  no  doubt  whatever  in  my 
mind:  Miss  Blake  could  not — and  so  did  not — kill  my 
wife. ' ' 

"Who  did,  then?" 

' '  Wait !  Let  me  first  ask  you  a  question,  sergeant :  Who 
sent  for  Doctor  Askew  ? ' ' 

"That's  the  queerest  part  of  it;  Miss  Blake  did." 

"Ah!  Howt" 

"There's  a  'phone  in  Mrs.  Hunt's  sittin'  room.  Miss 
Blake  called  the  house  operator,  gave  her  name  and  loca- 
tion, and  said  not  to  waste  a  moment — to  send  up  a  doctor 
double-quick ! ' ' 

"Is  that  all  she  said?" 

"No.  The  operator  tells  me  she  said  Mrs.  Hunt  had  had 
'a  terrible  accident  and  was  dyin'." 

"You're  certain  she  said  'accident'?" 

"The  girl  who  was  at  the  switchboard — name  of  Joyce — 
she's  sure  of  it." 

I  smiled,  grimly  enough.  "Then  that  is  exactly  what 
occurred,  sergeant — a  terrible  accident;  hideous.  Your 
question  is  answered.  Nobody  killed  Mrs.  Hunt — unless 
you  are  so  thoughtless  or  blasphemous  as  to  call  it  an  act 
of  God!" 

"Oh,  come  on  now!"  he  objected,  shaking  his  head,  but 
not,  I  felt,  with  entire  conviction.  "No,"  he  continued 
stubbornly,  "I  been  turnin'  that  over  too.  But  there's  no 
way  an  accident  like  that  could  'a'  happened.  It's  not 
possible ! ' ' 

"Fortunately,"  I  insisted,  "nothing  else  is  possible! 
Are  you  asking  me  to  believe  that  a  young,  sensitive  girl, 
•with  an  extraordinary  imaginative  sympathy  for  others — 
a  girl  of  brains  and  character,  as  all  her  friends  have  rea- 


168  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

son  to  know — asking  me  to  believe  that  she  walked  coolly 
into  my  wife's  room  this  evening,  rushed  savagely  upon 
her,  wrested  a  paper  knife  from  her  hand,  and  then  found 
the  sheer  brute  strength  of  will  and  arm  to  thrust  it 
through  her  eye  deep  into  her  brain?  Are  you  further 
asking  me  to  believe  that  having  done  this  frightful  thing 
she  kept  her  wits  about  her,  telephoned  at  once  for  a  doc- 
tor— being  careful  to  call  her  crime  an  accident — and 
so  passed  at  once  into  a  trance  of  some  kind  and  walked 
from  the  room  with  the  bloody  knife  in  her  hand?  "What 
possible  motive  could  be  strong  enough  to  drive  such  a 
girl  to  such  a  deed?" 

"Jealousy,"  said  Sergeant  Conlon.  "She  wanted  you — 
and  your  wife  stood  in  her  way.  That's  what  I  get  from 
Mrs.  Arthur." 

"I  see.  But  the  three  or  four  persons  who  know  Miss 
Blake  and  me  best  will  tell  you  how  absurd  that  is,  and 
you'll  find  their  reasons  for  thinking  so  are  very  convinc- 
ing. Is  Mr.  Phar  still  about  ? ' ' 

"He  is.     I've  detained  him." 

"What  does  he  think  of  Mrs.  Arthur's  nonsensical 
theory?" 

"He's  got  a  theory  of  his  own,"  said  Conlon;  "and  it 
happens  to  be  the  same  as  mine." 

"Well?" 

"Mr.  Phar  says  Miss  Blake's  own  father  went  mad — 
all  of  a  sudden;  cut  some  fancy  woman's  throat,  and  his 
own  after!  He  thinks  history's  repeated  itself,  that's  all. 
So  do  I.  Only  a  crazy  woman  could  'a'  done  this — just 
this  way.  A  strong  man  in  his  senses  couldn't  'a'  drove 
that  paper-knife  home  like  that !  But  when  a  person  goes 
mad,  sir,  all  rules  are  off.  I  seen  too  many  cases.  Things 
happen  you  can't  account  for.  Take  the  matter  of  that 
dog  now — his  broken  leg,  eh?  What  are  you  to  make  of 
that?  And  take  this  queer  state  she's  in.  There's  no  doubt 
in  my  mind,  Mr.  Hunt — the  poor  girl's  gone  crazy,  some- 
how. You  nor  me  can't  tell  how  nor  why.  But  it's  back 
of  all  this — that's  sure." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  169 

Throughout  all  this  coarse  nightmare,  this  insane  break 
in  Nature,  as  I  have  called  it  and  must  always  regard  it, 
let  me  at  least  be  honest.  As  Conlon  spoke,  for  the  tiniest 
fraction  of  a  second  a  desolating  fear  darted  through  me, 
searing  every  nerve  with  white-hot  pain.  Was  it  true? 
Might  it  not  conceivably  be  true?  But  this  single  light- 
ning-thrust of  doubt  passed  as  it  came.  No,  not  as  it  came, 
for  it  blotted  all  clearness,  all  power  of  voluntary  thought 
from  my  mind ;  but  it  left  behind  it  a  singular  intensity  of 
vision.  Even  as  the  lightning-pang  vanished,  and  while 
time  yet  stood  still,  a  moving  picture  that  amounted  to 
hallucination  began  to  play  itself  out  before  me.  It  was 
Uke 

.  .  .  that  last 

Wild  pageant  of  the  accumulated  past 
That  clangs  and  flashes  for  a  drowning  man. 

I  saw  Susan  shutting  the  door  of  a  delicately  panelled 
Georgian  room,  and  every  detail  of  this  room — a  room  I 
had  never  entered  in  the  flesh — was  distinct  to  me.  Given 
time,  I  could  have  inventoried  its  every  object.  I  saw  Ger- 
trude lying  on — not  a  couch,  as  Conlon  had  called  it — on  a 
chaise-longue,  a  book  with  a  vivid  green  cover  in  her  left 
hand,  a  bronze  paper  knife  with  a  thin,  pointed  blade  in 
her  right.  She  was  holding  it  with  the  knuckles  of  her 
hand  upward,  her  thumb  along  the  handle,  and  the  point 
of  the  blade  turned  to  her  left,  across  and  a  little  in  toward 
her  body.  She  was  wearing  a  very  lovely  neglige,  a  true 
creation,  all  in  filmy  tones  of  old  gold.  On  a  low-set  tip- 
table  at  her  elbow  stood  a  reading-lamp,  and  a  small  coal- 
black  French  bull  lay  asleep  on  a  superb  Chinese  rug — lay 
close  in  by  the  chaise-longue,  just  where  a  dropped  hand 
might  caress  him.  A  light  silky-looking  coverlet  of  a  pecu- 
liar dull  blue,  harmonizing  with  certain  tones  of  the  rug, 
was  thrown  across  Gertrude's  feet. 

As  Susan  shut  the  door,  the  little  bull  pricked  up  his 
bat-ears  and  started  to  uncurl,  but  Gertrude  must  have 
spoken  to  him,  for  he  settled  back  again — not,  however,  to 


170  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

sleep.  It  was  all  a  picture;  I  heard  no  sounds.  Then  I 
saw  Gertrude  put  down  her  book  on  the  table  and  swing 
her  feet  from  the  chaise-longue,  meaning  to  rise  and  greet 
Susan.  But,  as  she  attempted  to  stand  up,  the  light  cover- 
let entangled  her  feet  and  tripped  her ;  she  lost  her  balance, 
tried  with  a  violent,  awkward  lurch  of  her  whole  body  to 
recover  herself,  and  stamped  rather  than  stepped  full  on 
the  dog 's  f orepaws.  He  writhed,  springing  up  between  her 
feet — the  whole  grotesque  catastrophe  was,  in  effect,  a 
single,  fatal  gesture! — and  Gertrude,  throwing  her  hands 
instinctively  before  her  face,  fell  heavily  forward,  the 
length  of  her  body,  prone.  I  saw  Susan  rush  toward 
her —  And  the  psychic  reel  flickered  out,  blanked.  .  .  . 
[  needed  to  see  no  more. 

"Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Mr.  Hunt?"  Conlon  wse 
asking. 

"No,"  I  said  bluntly.  "No  madwoman  would  have  sum- 
moned a  doctor.  Miss  Blake  called  it  a  terrible  accident. 
It  was.  Her  present  state  is  due  to  the  horror  of  it.  When 
she  wakes,  it  will  all  be  explained.  Now  take  me  to  her." 

Conlon 's  gray-blue  glance  fixed  me  once  more.  "All 
right,"  he  grunted,  "I've  no  objections.  But  I'd  'a' 
thought  your  first  wish  would  'a'  been  to  see  your  wife." 

"No,"  I  replied.  "Mrs.  Hunt  separated  from  me  years 
ago,  for  reasons  of  her  own.  I  bore  her  no  ill  will;  in  a 
sense,  I  respected  her,  admired  her.  Understand  me,  Ser- 
geant Conlon.  There  was  nothing  vulgar  in  her  life,  and 
her  death  in  this  stupid  way — oh,  it 's  indecent,  damnable ! 
A  cheap  outrage!  I  could  do  nothing  for  her  living,  and 
can  do  nothing  now.  But  I  prefer  to  remember  her  as  she 
was.  She  would  prefer  it,  too. ' ' 

"Come  on,  then,"  said  Conlon;  pretty  gruffly,  I  thought. 

He  unlocked  the  door. 

m 

It  was  a  singular  thing,  but  so  convincing  had  my  vision 
been  to  me  that  I  felt  no  immediate  desire  to  verify  the 
details  of  its  setting  by  an  examination  of  Gertrude's 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  171 

boudoir.  It  had  come  to  me  bearing  its  own  credentials,  its 
own  satisfying  accent  of  truth.  One  question  did,  how- 
ever, fasten  upon  me,  as  I  followed  Conlon's  bulky  form 
down  the  hall  to  Lucette's  bedroom.  Whence  had  this 
vision,  this  psychic  reel  come  to  me  ?  What  was  its  source  ? 
How  could  the  mere  fact  of  it — clearing,  as  it  did,  at  least, 
all  perplexities  from  my  own  mind — have  occurred?  For 
the  moment  I  could  find  no  answer ;  the  mystery  had  hap- 
pened, had  worked,  but  remained  a  mystery. 

Like  most  men  in  this  modern  world  I  had  taken  a  vague, 
mild  interest  in  psychical  research,  reading  more  or  less 
casually,  and  with  customary  suspension  of  judgment,  any- 
thing of  the  sort  that  came  in  my  way.  I  had  a  bowing 
acquaintance  with  its  rapidly  growing  literature;  little 
more;  and  until  now  I  had  had  no  striking  psychical  ex- 
periences of  my  own,  and  had  never,  as  it  happened, 
attended  a  seance  of  any  kind,  either  popular  or  scientific. 
Nevertheless,  I  could — to  put  it  so — speak  that  language. 
I  was  familiar  with  the  described  phenomena,  in  a  general 
way,  and  with  the  conflicting  theories  of  its  leading  investi- 
gators; but  I  had — honestly  speaking — no  pet  theories  of 
my  own,  though  always  impatient  of  spiritistic  explana- 
tions, and  rather  inclined  to  doubt,  too,  the  persistent  claim 
that  thought  transference  had  been  incontrovertibly  estab- 
lished. On  the  whole,  I  suppose  I  was  inclined  to  favor 
common-sense  mechanistic  explanations  of  such  phenomena, 
and  to  regard  all  others  with  alert  suspicion  or  wearily 
amused  contempt. 

Now  at  last,  in  my  life's  most  urgent  crisis,  I  had  had 
news  from  nowhere;  now,  furthermore,  the  being  I  loved 
and  would  protect,  must  protect,  had  been  thrown  by 
psychic  shock  into  that  grim  borderland,  the  Abnormal: 
that  land  of  lost  voices,  of  the  fringe  of  consciousness,  of 
dissociated  personalities,  of  morbid  obsession,  and  wild 
symbolic  dreams.  Following  on  Conlon's  heels,  then,  I 
entered  a  softly  illumined  room — a  restrained  Louis  Seize 
room — a  true  Gertrude  room,  with  its  cool  French-gray 
panelled  walls;  but  entered  there  as  into  sinister  darkness, 


172  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

as  if  groping  for  light.  The  comfortably  accustomed,  the 
predictable,  I  felt,  lay  all  behind  me;  I  must  step  warily 
henceforth  among  shifting  shadows  and  phosphoric  blurs. 
The  issues  were  too  terrifying,  too  vast,  for  even  one  little 
false  move;  Susan's  future,  the  very  health  of  her  soul, 
might  depend  now  upon  the  blundering  clumsiness  or  the 
instinctive  tact  with  which  I  attempted  to  pick  and  choose 
my  way.  It  was  with  a  secret  shuddering  of  flesh  and 
spirit  that  I  entered  that  discreet,  faultless  room. 

Susan  was  lying  on  the  low  single  French  bed,  a  coverlet 
drawn  over  her;  they  had  removed  her  trim  tailored  hat, 
the  jacket  of  her  dark  suit,  and  her  walking-boots,  leaving 
them  on  the  couch  by  the  silk-curtained  windows,  where 
they  had  perhaps  first  placed  her.  She  had  not  dressed  for 
the  evening  before  coming  up  to  Gertrude's;  it  was  evi- 
dently to  have  been  a  businesslike  call.  Her  black  weblike 
hair — smoky,  I  always  called  it,  to  tease  her ;  it  never  fell 
lank  or  separated  into  strings — had  been  disordered,  and 
a  floating  weft  of  it  had  drifted  across  her  forehead  and 
hung  there.  Her  face  was  moon-white,  her  lips  pale,  the 
lines  of  cheek  and  chin  had  sharpened,  her  eyes  were 
closed.  It  was  very  like  death.  My  throat  tightened  and 
ached.  .  .  . 

Doctor  Askew  stood  across  the  bed  from  us,  looking  down 
at  her. 

"Here's  Mr.  Hunt,"  said  Conlon,  without  further  intro- 
duction. "He  wants  to  see  you."  Then  he  stepped  back 
to  the  door  and  shut  it,  remaining  over  by  it,  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  bed.  His  silence  was  expressive.  "Now 
show  me!"  it  seemed  to  say.  "This  may  be  a  big  case  for 
me  and  it  may  not.  If  not,  I'm  satisfied;  I'm  ready  for 
anything.  Go  on,  show  me!" 

Doctor  Askew  was  not,  as  I  had  expected  to  find  him, 
old;  nor  even  middle-aged;  an  expectation  caught,  I  pre- 
sume, from  Conlon 's  laconic  "One  of  the  best — a  big  rep"; 
he  was,  I  now  estimated,  a  year  or  so  younger  than  I.  I 
had  never  heard  of  him  and  knew  nothing  about  him,  but 
I  liked  him  at  once  when  he  glanced  humorously  up  at 


I 


?HE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  173 

Conlon 's  "He  wants  to  see  you,"  nodded  to  me,  and  said: 
"I've  been  hoping  you'd  come  soon,  Mr.  Hunt.  I've  a 
mind  to  try  something  here — if  you've  no  objection  to  an 
experiment  ? ' ' 

He  was  a  short  man,  not  fat,  but  thickset  like  Conlon; 
only,  with  a  higher-strung  vitality,  carrying  with  it  a  sense 
of  intellectual  eagerness  and  edge.  He  had  a  sandy, 
freckled  complexion,  bronzy,  crisp-looking  hair  with  red- 
dish gleams  in  it,  and  an  unmistakably  red,  aggressive  mus- 
tache, close-clipped  but  untamed.  Green-blue  eyes.  A 
man,  I  decided,  of  many  intensities;  a  willful  man;  but 
thoughtful,  too,  and  seldom  unkind. 

' '  Why  did  you  wait  for  my  permission  ? "  I  asked. 

"I  shouldn't  have — much  longer,"  he  replied,  his  eyes 
returning  to  Susan's  unchanging  face.  "But  I've  read 
one  or  two  of  your  essays,  so  I  know  something  of  the  feel 
of  your  mind.  It  occurred  to  me  you  might  be  useful. 
And  besides,  I  badly  need  some  information  about  this" — 
he  paused  briefly — "this  very  lovely  child."  Again  he 
paused  a  moment,  adding:  "This  is  a  singular  case,  Mr. 
Hunt — and  likely  to  prove  more  singular  as  we  see  it 
through.  I  acted  too  impulsively  in  sending  for  Conlon; 
I  apologize.  It's  not  a  police  matter,  as  I  at  first  supposed. 
However,  I  hope  there's  no  harm  done.  Conlon  is  holding 
his  horses  and  trying  to  be  discreet.  Aren't  you,  Conlon?" 

"What's  the  idea?"  muttered  Conlon,  from  the  door- 
way; Conlon  was  not  used  to  being  treated  thus,  de  haut 
en  las.  "Even  if  that  poor  little  girl's  crazy,  we'll  have 
to  swear  out  a  warrant  for  her.  It's  a  police  matter  all 
right." 

"I  think  not/'  said  Doctor  Askew,  dismissing  Conlon 
from  the  conversation.  "Have  you  ever,"  he  then  asked 
me,  "seen  Miss  Blake  like  this  before?" 

I  was  about  to  say  "No !"  with  emphasis,  when  a  sudden 
memory  returned  to  me — the  memory  of  a  queer,  crumpled 
little  figure  lying  on  the  concrete  incline  of  the  Eureka 
Garage;  curled  up  there,  like  an  unearthed  cutworm, 


174  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

round  a  shining  dinner-pail.  "Yes,"  I  replied  instead; 
"once— I  think." 

"You  think?" 

I  sketched  the  occasion  for  him  and  explained  all  its 
implications  as  clearly  and  briefly  as  I  could;  and  while  I 
talked  thus  across  her  bed  Susan 's  eyes  did  not  open ;  she 
did  not  stir.  Doctor  Askew  heard  me  out,  as  I  felt,  intently, 
but  kept  his  eye  meanwhile — except  for  a  keen  glance  or 
two  in  my  direction — on  Susan 's  face. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  when  I  had  concluded;  "that 
throws  more  or  less  light.  There's  nothing  to  worry  us,  at 
least,  in  Miss  Blake's  condition.  Under  psychical  trauma 
— shock — she  has  a  tendency  to  pass  into  a  trance  state — 
amounting  practically  to  one  of  the  deeper  stages  of  hyp- 
nosis. She'll  come  out  of  it  sooner  or  later — simply  wake 
up — if  we  leave  her  alone.  Perhaps,  after  all,  that's  the 
wisest  thing  for  us  to  do." 

On  this  conclusion  he  walked  away  from  the  bed,  as  if 
it  ended  the  matter,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Well,  Conlon,"  he  grinned,  "we're  making  a  night  of 
it,  eh?  Come,  let's  all  sit  down  and  talk  things  over."  He 
seated  himself  on  the  end  of  the  couch  as  he  spoke,  loung- 
ing back  on  one  elbow  and  crossing  his  knees.  "I  ought 
to  tell  you,  Mr.  Hunt, ' '  he  added,  ' '  that  nervous  disorders 
are  my  specialty;  more  than  that,  indeed — my  life!  I 
studied  under  Janet  in  Paris,  and  later  put  in  a  couple 
o±  years  as  assistant  physician  in  the  Clinic  of  Psychiatry, 
Zurich.  Did  some  work,  too,  at  Vienna — with  Stekel  and 
Freud.  So  I  needn't  say  a  problem  of  this  kind  is  simply 
meat  and  drink  to  me.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for 
anything  in  the  world ! ' ' 

I  was  a  little  chilled  by  his  words,  by  an  attitude  that 
seemed  to  me  cold-bloodedly  professional;  nevertheless,  I 
joined  him,  drawing  up  a  chair,  and  Conlon  gradually 
worked  his  way  toward  us,  though  he  remained  standing. 

"What  I  want  to  know,  doc,"  demanded  Conlon,  "is 
why  you  've  changed  your  mind  ? "  «* 

"I  haven't,"  Doctor  Askew  responded.    "I  can't  have, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  175 

because  I  haven 't  yet  formed  an  opinion.  I  'm  just  begin- 
ning to — and  even  that  may  take  me  some  time."  He 
turned  to  me.  ' '  What 's  your  theory,  Mr.  Hunt  ? ' ' 

I  was  prepared  for  this  question;  my  mind  had  been 
busying  itself  foresightedly  with  every  possible  turn  our 
conversation  was  likely  to  take.  All  my  faculties  were 
sharpened  by  strain,  by  my  pressing  sense  that  Susan's 
future,  for  good  or  evil,  might  somehow  be  linked  to  my 
lightest  word.  I  had  determined,  then,  in  advance,  not  to 
speak  in  Conlon's  presence  of  my  inexplicable  vision,  not 
to  mention  it  at  all  to  anyone  unless  some  unexpected  turn 
of  the  wheel  might  make  it  seem  expedient.  I  could  use  it 
to  Susan's  advantage,  I  believed,  more  effectively  by; 
indirection ;  I  endeavored  to  do  so  now. 

"My  theory?"  I  queried. 

"As  to  how  Mrs.  Hunt  met  her  death.  However  pain- 
ful, we  've  got  to  face  that  out,  sooner  or  later. ' ' 

"Naturally.  But  I  have  no  theory,"  I  replied;  "I  have 
an  unshakable  conviction." 

"Ah!    Which  is " 

c '  That  the  whole  thing  was  accidental,  of  course ;  just  as 
Miss  Blake  affirmed  it  to  be  over  the  telephone." 

"You  believe  that  because  she  affirmed  it?" 

"Exactly." 

"That  won't  go  down  with  the  coroner,"  struck  in  Con- 
Ion.  "How  could  it?  I'd  like  to  think  it,  well  enough — 
but  it  don't  with  me!" 

"Wait,  Conlon!"  suggested  Doctor  Askew,  sharply. 
"I'll  conduct  this  inquiry  just  now,  if  you  don't  mind — 
and  if  Mr.  Hunt  will  be  good  enough  to  answer." 

"Why  not?"  I  replied. 

"Thank  you.  Conlon's  point  is  a  good  one,  all  the  same. 
Have  you  been  able  to  form  any  reasonable  notion  of  how 
such  an  accident  could  have  .occurred  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

>    "The  hell  you  have!"  exclaimed  Conlon  excitedly,  not 
meaning,  I  think,  to  be  sarcastic.  "Why,  you  haven't  even 


176  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

been  in  there" — he  referred  to  Gertrude's  boudoir — "or 
seen  the  body ! ' ' 

"No,"  I  responded,  "but  you  and  Doctor  Askew  have, 
so  you  can  easily  put  me  right.  Extraordinary  as  the 
whole  thing  is — the  one  deadly  chance  in  perhaps  a  million 
— there's  nothing  impossible  about  it.  Merely  from  the 
facts  you've  given  me,  Sergeant  Conlon,  I  can  reconstruct 
the  whole  scene — come  pretty  near  it,  at  any  rate.  But  the 
strength  of  my  conviction  is  based  on  other  grounds — don't 
lose  sight  of  that!  Miss  Blake  didn't  kill  Mrs.  Hunt ;  she's 
incapable  of  such  an  action;  and  if  she  didn't,  no  one  else 
did.  An  accident  is  the  only  alternative." 

"Well,  then,"  grunted  Conlon,  "tell  us  about  it!  It'll 
take  some  tellin'!" 

"Hold  on!"  exclaimed  Doctor  Askew  before  I  could 
begin.  "Sorry,  Mr.  Hunt — but  you  remember,  perhaps — 
when  yon  first  came  in — I  had  half  a  mind  to  try  some- 
thing— an  experiment?"  I  nodded.  ""Well,  I've  made  up 
my  mind.  "We'll  try  it  right  now,  before  it's  too  late.  If  it 
succeeds,  it  may  yield  us  a  few  facts  to  go  on.  Your  sup- 
positions can  come  afterward." 

I  felt,  as  he  spoke,  that  something  behind  his  words  belied 
their  rudeness,  that  their  rudeness  was  rather  for  Conlon 's 
benefit  than  for  mine.  He  got  up  briskly  and  crossed  to 
the  bedside.  There  after  a  moment  he  turned  and  motioned 
us  both  to  join  him. 

As  we  did  so,  tiptoeing  instinctively :  ' '  Yes — this  is  for- 
tunate," he  said;  "she's  at  it  again.  Look." 

Susan  still  lay  as  I  had  first  seen  her,  with  shut  eyes, 
her  arms  extended  outside  the  coverlet;  but  she  was  no 
longer  entirely  motionless.  Her  left  arm  lay  relaxed,  the 
palm  of  her  left  hand  upward.  I  had  often  seen  her  hands 
lie  inertly  thus  in  her  lap,  the  palms  upward,  in  those 
moments  of  silent  withdrawal  which  I  have  more  than  once 
described.  But  now  her  right  hand  was  turned  downward, 
the  fingers  slightly  contracted,  as  if  they  held  a  pen,  and 
the  hand  was  creeping  slowly  on  the  coverlet  from  left  to 
right;  it  would  creep  slowly  in  this  way  for  perhaps  eight 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  177 

inches,  then  draw  quickly  back  to  its  point  of  starting  and 
repeat  the  manoeuvre.  It  was  uncanny,  this  patient  repeti- 
tion— over  and  over — of  a  single  restricted  movement. 

"My  God,"  came  from  C onion  in  a  husky  whisper,  "is 
she  dyin ' — or  what  ? ' ' 

"Far  from  it!"  said  Doctor  Askew,  his  abrupt,  crisp 
speech  in  almost  ludicrous  contrast  to  Conlon  's  sudden  awe. 
' '  Get  me  some  paper  from  that  desk  over  there,  Conlon.  A 
pad,  if  possible." 

He  drew  out  a  pencil  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke.  Con- 
Ion  hesitated  an  instant,  then  obeyed,  tiptoeing  ponder- 
ously, with  creaking  boots,  over  to  a  daintily  appointed 
writing-table,  and  returning  with  a  block  of  linen  paper. 
Doctor  Askew,  meanwhile,  holding  the  pencil  between  his 
teeth,  had  lifted  Susan's  unresisting  shoulders — too 
roughly,  I  thought — from  the  bed. 

"Stick  that  other  pillow  under  her,"  he  ordered  me, 
sharply  enough  in  spite  of  the  impeding  pencil.  "A  little 
farther  down — so!" 

Susan  now  lay,  no  less  limply  than  before,  with  her 
trunk,  shoulders,  and  head  somewhat  raised.  Her  right 
hand  had  ceased  its  slow,  patient  movement. 

"What's  the  idea?"  Conlon  was  muttering.  "What's 
the  idea,  doc?" 

Whatever  it  was,  it  was  evident  that  Conlon  didn't 
like  it. 

"Got  the  pad?"  demanded  Doctor  Askew.  "Oh,  good! 
Here!" 

He  almost  snatched  the  pad  from  Conlon  and  tore  the 
blotter  cover  from  it;  then  he  slipped  it  beneath  Susan's 
right  paJm  and  finally  thrust  his  pencil  between  her  curved 
fingers,  its  point  resting  on  the  linen  block,  which  he 
steadied  by  holding  one  corner  between  finger  and  thumb. 
For  a  moment  the  hand  remained  quiet;  then  it  began  to 
write.  I  say  "it"  advisedly;  no  least  trace  of  conscious- 
ness or  purposed  control  could  be  detected  in  Susan's 
impassive  face  or  heavily  relaxed  body.  Susan  was  not 
writing ;  her  waking  will  had  no  part  in  this  strange  autom- 


178  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

atism;  so  much,  at  least,  was  plain  to  me  and  even  to 
C  onion. 

"Mother  of  God,"  came  his  throaty  whisper  again,  "it's 
not  her  that's  doin'  it.  Who's  pushin'  that  hand?" 

"It's  not  sperits,  Conlon,"  said  Doctor  Askew  ironi- 
cally; "you  can  take  my  say-so  for  that."  With  the  words 
he  withdrew  the  scribbled  top  sheet  from  the  pad,  glanced 
at  it,  and  handed  it  to  me.  The  hand  journeyed  on,  cover- 
ing a  second  sheet  as  I  read.  "That  doesn't  help  us  much, 
does  it?"  was  Doctor  Askew 's  comment,  when  I  had  de- 
voured the  first  sheet. 

"No,"  I  replied;  "not  directly.  But  I'll  keep  this  if 
you  don 't  mind. ' ' 

I  folded  the  sheet  and  slipped  it  into  my  pocket.  Doctor 
Askew  removed  the  second  sheet. 

"Same  sort  of  stuff,"  he  grunted,  passing  it  over  to  me. 
"It  needs  direction."  And  he  began  addressing — not 
Susan,  to  Conlon 's  amazement — the  hand!  "What  hap- 
pened in  Mrs.  Hunt's  room  to-night?"  he  demanded  firmly 
of  the  hand.  "Tell  us  exactly  what  happened  in  Mrs. 
Hunt's  room  to-night!  It's  important.  What  happened 
in  Mrs.  Hunt 's  room  to-night  ? ' ' 

Always  addressing  the  hand,  his  full  attention  fixed  upon 
it  as  it  moved,  he  repeated  this  burden  over  and  over.  "We 
must  know  exactly  what  happened  in  Mrs.  Hunt's  room 
to-night!  Tell  us  what  happened  in  Mrs.  Hunt's  room 
to-night.  .  .  .  What  happened  in  Mrs.  Hunt's  room  to- 
night?" 

Conlon  and  I  both  noted  that  Susan 's  breathing,  hitherto 
barely  to  be  detected,  gradually  grew  more  labored  while 
Doctor  Askew  insisted  upon  and  pressed  home  his  monot- 
onous refrain.  He  had  so  placed  himself  now  that  he  could 
follow  the  slowly  pencilled  words.  More  and  more  deliber' 
ately  the  hand  moved ;  then  it  paused.  .  .  . 

"What  happened  in  Mrs.  Hunt's  room  to-night?" 
chanted  Doctor  Askew. 

"This  ain't  right,"  muttered  Conlon.  "It's  worse 'n  the 
third  degree.  I  don't  like  it." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  179 

He  creaked  uneasily  away.  The  hand  moved  again,  hesi- 
tatingly, briefly. 

"Ah,"  chanted  Doctor  Askew — always  to  the  hand — "it 
was  an  accident,  was  it?  How  did  it  happen?  Tell  us 
exactly  how  it  happened — exactly  how  it  happened.  We 
must  know.  .  .  .  How  did  the  accident  happen  in  Mrs. 
Hunt's  room  to-night?" 

Again  the  hand  moved,  more  steadily  this  time,  and 
seemingly  in  response  to  his  questions. 

Doctor  Askew  glanced  up  at  me  with  an  encouraging 
smile.  "We'll  get  it  now — all  of  it.  Don't  worry.  The 
hand's  responding  to  control." 

Though  sufficiently  astonished  and  disturbed  by  this  per- 
formance, I  was  not,  like  Conlon,  wholly  at  sea.  Sober 
accounts  of  automatic  writing  could  be  found  in  all  modern 
psychologies;  I  had  read  some  of  these  accounts — given 
with  all  the  dry  detachment  of  clinical  data.  They  had 
interested  me,  not  thrilled  me.  No  supernatural  power  was 
involved.  It  was  merely  the  comparative  rarity  of  such 
phenomena  in  the  ordinary  normal  course  of  experience 
that  made  them  seem  awe-inspiring.  And  yet,  the  hand 
there,  solely  animate,  patiently  writing  in  entire  inde- 
pendence of  a  consciously  directing  will !  My  spine, 

too,  like  Conlon 's,  registered  an  authentic  shiver  of  protest 
and  atavistic  fear.  But,  throughout,  I  kept  my  tautened 
wits  about  me,  busily  working ;  and  they  drove  me  now  on 
a  sudden  inspiration  to  the  writing-table,  where  I  seized 
pen  and  paper  and  wrote  down  with  the  most  collected 
celerity  a  condensed  account  of — for  so  I  phrased  it — 
"what  must,  from  the  *  established  facts,  be  supposed  to 
have  taken  place  in  Mrs.  Hunt's  boudoir,  just  after  Miss 
Blake  had  entered  it."  I  put  this  account  deliberately  as 
my  theory  of  the  matter,  as  the  one  solution  of  the  problem 
consistent  with  the  given  facts  and  the  known  characters 
involved ;  and  I  had  barely  concluded  when  I  was  startled 
to  my  feet  by  Doctor  Askew 's  voice — raised  cheerily  above 
its  monotonous  murmur  of  questions  to  the  hand — calling 
my  name. 


180  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"What  are  you  up  to,  Mr.  Hunt?  My  little  experiment's 
over.  It's  a  complete  success." 

He  was  walking  toward  me  with  a  handful  of  loose  scrib- 
bled sheets  from  the  linen  block. 

' '  How  is  she  now  ? "  I  inquired  anxiously,  as  if  she  had 
just  been  subjected  to  a  dangerous  operation. 

"All  right.  Deep  under.  I  shan't  try  to  pull  her  out 
yet.  Much  better  for  her  to  come  out  of  it  naturally  her- 
self. I  suggest  we  darken  the  room  and  leave  her." 

"That  suits  me!"  I  just  caught  from  Conlon,  over  by 
the  door. 

"She'll  be  quite  safe  alone?" 

"Absolutely.  I  want  to  read  this  thing  to  Conlon  and 
Mrs.  Arthur  and  Mr.  Phar,  before  the  coroner  gets  here. 
I  rather  think  they'll  find  it  convincing." 

"Good,"  I  responded.  "But,  first  of  all,  let  me  read 
them  this.  I've  just  jotted  down  my  analysis  of  the  whole 
situation.  It's  a  piece  of  cold  constructive  reasoning  from 
the  admitted  data,  and  I  shall  be  greatly  surprised  if  it 
doesn't  on  the  whole  agree  with  what  you've  been  able  to 
obtain." 

Doctor  Askew  stared  at  me  a  moment  curiously.  "And 
if  it  doesn't  agree?"  he  asked. 

"If  it  don't,"  exclaimed  Conlon,  with  obvioir.  relief,  "it 
may  help  us,  all  the  same !  This  thing  can 't  be  settled  by 
that  kind  of  stuff,  doc."  He  gave  a  would-be  contemptuous 
nod  toward  Doctor  Askew 's  handful  of  scrawled  pages. 
"That's  no  evidence — whatever  it  says.  "Where  does  it 
come  from  ?  Who 's  givin '  it  ?  It  can 't  be  sworn  to  on  the 
Book,  that's  certain — eh?  Let's  get  outa  here  and  begin 
to  talk  sense ! ' '  Conlon  opened  the  door  eagerly,  and 
creaked  off  through  the  hall. 

"Go  with  him,"  ordered  Doctor  Askew.  "I'll  put  out 
the  lights."  Then  he  touched  my  elbow  and  gave  me  a 
slight  nod.  "I  see  your  point  of  course.  But  I  hope  to 
God  you've  hit  somewhere  near  it?" 

"Doctor,"  I  replied,  "this  account  of  mine  is  exact.  I'll 
tell  you  later  how  I  know  that." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  181 

"Ah!"  he  grunted,  with  a  green-blue  flash  of  eyes. 
""What  a  lucky  devil  I  am!  ...  But  I've  felt  all  along 
this  would  prove  a  rewarding  case." 


IV 

Up  to  this  point  I  have  been  necessarily  thus  detailed, 
but  I  am  eager  now  to  win  past  the  cruder  melodrama  of 
this  insanely  disordered  night.  I  am  eager  to  win  back 
from  all  these  damnable  and  distracting  things  to  Susan. 
This  book  is  hers,  not  mine;  it  is  certainly  not  Sergeant 
Conlon's  or  Doctor  Askew 's.  So  you  will  forgive  me,  and 
understand,  if  I  present  little  more  than  a  summary  of  the 
immediately  following  hours. 

"We  found  Maltby  and  Lucette  in  the  drawing-room, 
worn  out  with  their  night-long  vigil;  Maltby,  somnolent 
and  savage;  Lucette  still  keyed  high,  suffering  from  ex- 
asperated nerves  which — perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life — she  could  not  control.  They  were  seated  as  far  apart 
as  the  room  permitted,  having  long  since  talked  themselves 
out,  and  were  engaged,  I  think,  in  tacitly  hating  one 
another.  The  situation  was  almost  impossible ;  yet  I  knew 
I  must  dominate  it  somehow,  and  begin  by  dominating 
myself — and  in  the  end,  with  Conlon  's  and  Doctor  Askew 's 
help,  I  succeeded.  Conlon,  I  confess,  proved  to  be  an  unex- 
pected ally  all  through. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Arthur,  and  you,  Mr.  Phar,"  he  stated  at 
once  as  we  entered  the  drawing-room  together,  "I've 
brought  Mr.  Hunt  in  here  to  read  you  his  guess  at  what 
happened  last  evenin'.  Doctor  Askew '11  be  with  us  in  a 
minute,  and  he's  got  somethin'  to  lay  before  you.  .  .  . 
No;  Miss  Blake's  not  come  round  yet.  The  doc '11  explain 
about  her.  But  we'll  hear  from  Mr.  Hunt  first,  see?  I've 
examined  him  and  I'm  satisfied  he's  straight.  You've 
known  him  long  enough  to  form  your  own  opinions,  but 
that's  mine.  Oh,  here 's  the  doc !  Go  on,  Mr.  Hunt." 

With  this  lead,  I  was  at  length  able  to  persuade  Lucette 
and  Maltby  to  listen,  sullenly  enough,  to  my  written  anal- 


182  THE  BOOK  OE  SUSAN 

ysis.  My  feeling  toward  them  both,  though  better  con- 
cealed, was  quite  as  hostile  as  theirs  toward  me,  but  I  savr 
that  I  caught  their  reluctant  attention  and  that  Maltby 
was  somewhat  impressed  by  what  I  had  written,  and  by  my 
interjected  amplifications  of  the  more  salient  points.  I  had 
been  careful  to  introduce  no  facts  not  given  me  by  Sergeant 
Conlon,  and  when  I  had  finished,  ignoring  Lucette's  instant 
murmur  of  impatience  and  incredulity,  I  turned  to  him 
and  said:  ''Sergeant,  is  there  anything  known  to  you  and 
not  known  to  me — any  one  detail  discovered  during  your 
examination  of  Mrs.  Hunt's  boudoir,  say — which  makes  my 
deductions  impossible  or  absurd  ? ' ' 

He  reflected  a  moment,  then  acknowledged:  "Well,  no, 
Mr.  Hunt.  Things  might  'a'  happened  like  that;  maybe 
they  did.  But  just  sayin'  so  don't  prove  they  did!" 

' '  May  I  ask  you  a  few  questions  ? ' ' 

"Sure." 

"Had  Mrs.  Hunt's  body  been  moved  when  you  arrived? 
I  mean,  from  the  very  spot  where  it  fell  ? ' ' 

"It  had  and  it  hadn't.  The  doc  here  found  her  lyin' 
face  down  on  the  floor,  right  in  front  of  the  couch.  He 
had  to  roll  her  over  on  her  back  to  examine  her.  That's 
all.  The  body's  there  now  like  that,  covered  with  a  sheet. 
Nothin'  else  has  been  disturbed." 

"The  body  was  lying  face  down,  you  say!" 

"Yes,"  struck  in  Doctor  Askew;  "it  was." 

"At  full  length?" 

"Yes." 

"Isn't  that  rather  surprising?" 

* '  Unquestionably. ' ' 

"How  do  you  account  for  the  position?" 

"There's  only  one  possible  explanation,"  replied  Doctor 
'Askew,  as  if  giving  expert  testimony  from  a  witness  box; 
"a  sudden  and  complete  loss  of  balance,  pitching  the  body 
sharply  forward,  accompanied  by  such  a  binding  of  the 
legs  and  feet  as  to  prevent  any  instinctive  movement 
toward  recovery." 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"Thank  you.  Were  there  any  indications  of  such,  bind- 
ing?" 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Hunt's  trailing  draperies  had  somehow 
wound  themselves  tightly  about  her  legs  below  the  knee, 
and  I  judge  her  feet  were  further  impeded  by  a  sort  of 
coverlet  which  I  found  touselled  up  on  the  rug  beneath 
them." 

"Grant  all  that!"  growled  Maltby.  "It  points  to  just 
the  opposite  of  what  we  'd  all  like  to  think  is  true.  If  Mrs. 
Hunt  had  risen  slowly  to  greet  a  caller  in  the  usual  way — 
well,  she  wouldn't  have  gotten  herself  tangled  up.  She 
was  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  do  anything  awk- 
wardly. But  if  she  leaped  to  her  feet  in  terror — what? 
To  defend  herself — or  try  to  escape  ?  Don 't  you  see  ? " 

"Of  course  we  see!"  cried  Lucette.  "It  proves  every- 
thing!" 

"Hardly,"  I  replied.  "Try  to  imagine  the  scene,  Maltby, 
as  you  seem  to  believe  it  occurred.  I  won't  speak  of  the 
major  impossibility — that  Susan,  a  girl  you've  known  and 
have  asked  to  be  your  wife,  could  under  any  circumstances 
be  the  author  of  such  a  crime!  We'll  pass  that.  Simply 
try  to  picture  the  crime  itself.  Susan,  showing  no  traces 
of  unnatural  excitement,  is  conducted  to  my  wife's  boudoir. 
She  enters,  shuts  the  door,  turns,  then  rushes  at  her  with 
so  hideous  an  effect  of  insane  fury  that  Gertrude  springs 
up,  terrified.  Susan — more  slightly  built  than  Gertrude, 
remember! — grapples  with  her,  tears  a  paper  knife  from 
her  hand,  and  plunges  it  deep  into  her  eye,  penetrating  the 
brain.  Suppose,  if  you  will,  that  madness  lent  her  this 
force.  But,  obviously,  for  the  point  of  the  knife  to  enter 
the  eye  in  that  way,  Gertrude  must  have  been  fronting 
Susan,  her  chin  well  raised.  Obviously,  the  force  of  such 
a  blow  would  have  thrown  her  head,  her  whole  body,  back- 
ward, not  forward ;  and  if  her  feet  were  bound,  as  Doctor 
Askew  says  they  were,  she  must  have  fallen  backward  or 
to  one  side,  certainly  not  forward  at  full  length,  on  her 
face."  ' 


184  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"You've  said  somethin'  this  time,  Mr.  Hunt!"  exclaimed 
Conlon.  ' '  There 's  a  lot  to  that ! ' ' 

Maltby  was  visibly  impressed ;  but  not  Lucette.  "As  if,' 
she  said,  ' '  Susan  wouldn  't  have  arranged  the  body — after- 
ward— in  any  way  she  thought  to  her  advantage!" 

"There  wasn't  time!"  Doctor  Askew  objected  im- 
patiently. "And,"  he  went  on,  "it  happens  that  all  this  is 
futile!  I  have  proof  here,  corroborating  Mr.  Hunt's 
remarkably  acute  theories  in  the  most  positive  way." 

But  before  reading  what  Susan's  hand  had  written,  he 
turned  to  Sergeant  Conlon,  requesting  his  close  attention, 
and  then  gave  him  briefly  a  popular  lecture  on  the  nature 
of  automatic  writing  as  understood  by  a  tough-minded 
neurologist  with  no  faith  in  the  supernatural.  It  was 
really  a  masterly  performance  in  its  way,  for  he  avoided 
the  jargon  of  science  and  cut  down  to  essentials. 

"Conlon,"  he  said,  "you've  often  forgotten  something, 
tried  to  recall  it,  and  finally  given  it  up.  We  all  have. 
And  then  some  day,  when  you  least  expected  it  and  were 
thinking  of  something  else,  that  forgotten  something  has 
popped  into  your  mind  again — eh?  All  right.  Where  was 
it  in  the  meantime,  when  you  couldn't  put  your  finger  on 
it  ?  Since  it  eventually  came  back,  it  must  have  been  pre- 
served somewhere.  That's  plain  enough,  isn't  it?  But 
when  you  say  something  you've  forgotten  'pops  into  your 
mind'  again,  you're  wrong.  It's  never  been  out  of  your 
mind.  What  too  many  of  us  still  don't  know  is  that  a 
man 's  mind  has  two  parts  to  it.  One  part,  much  the  small- 
est, is  consciousness — the  part  we're  using  now,  the  part 
we're  always  aware  of.  The  other  part  is  a  big  dark  store- 
house, where  pretty  much  everything  we've  forgotten  is 
kept.  We're  not  aware  of  the  storehouse  or  the  things  kept 
in  it,  so  the  ordinary  man  doesn't  know  anything  about  it. 
You're  not  aware  of  your  spleen,  and  wouldn't  know  you 
had  one  if  doctors  hadn  't  cut  up  a  lot  of  people  and  found 
spleens  in  every  one  of  them.  You  believe  you've  got  a 
spleen  because  we  doctors  tell  you  so.  Well,  I'm  telling 
you  now  that  your  mind  has  a  big  storehouse,  where  most 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  185 

of  the  things  you've  forgotten  are  preserved.  "We  mind- 
doctors  call  it  your  Unconscious  Mind.  All  clear  so  far? 
.  .  .  Good. 

"Now  then — when  a  man's  hypnotized,  it  means  his  con- 
scious mind  has  been  put  to  sleep,  practically,  and  his 
unconscious  mind  has,  in  a  sense,  waked  up.  When  a  man 's 
hypnotized  we  can  fish  all  sorts  of  queer  things  from  his 
big  storehouse,  his  unconscious  mind;  things  he  didn't 
know  were  there,  things  he'd  forgotten.  .  .  .  And  it's  the 
same  with  what  we  call  trances.  A  man  in  a  trance  is  a 
man  whose  conscious  mind  is  asleep  and  whose  unconscious 
mind  is  awake. 

"That's  exactly  Miss  Blake's  condition  now.  The  shock 
of  what  she  saw  last  evening  threw  her  into  a  trance ;  she 
doesn't  know  what's  going  on  round  her — but  her  uncon- 
scious mind  has  a  record,  a  sort  of  phonograph-record  of 
more  or  less  everything  that 's  ever  happened  to  her,  and  if 
she  speaks  or  writes  in  this  trance  state  she'd  simply  play 
one  of  these  stored-up  records  for  us;  play  it  just  like  a 
phonograph,  automatically.  Her  will  power's  out  of  com- 
mission, you  see;  in  this  state  she's  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  highly  complicated  instrument.  And  the  record  she 
plays  may  be  of  no  interest  to  anybody;  some  long-for- 
gotten incident  or  experience  of  childhood,  for  example. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  we  can  get  the  right  record  going — 
eh? — we've  every  chance  of  finding  out  exactly  what  we 
want  to  know!"  He  paused,  fixing  his  already  attentive 
pupil  with  his  peculiarly  vivid  green-blue  glance. 

"Now,  Conlon,  get  this — it's  important!  I  must  ask  you 
to  believe  one  other  thing  about  the  Unconscious  Mind — 
simply  take  it  on  my  say-so,  as  a  proved  fact:  When  the 
conscious  mind  is  temporarily  out  of  business — as  under 
hypnotism,  or  in  trance — the  unconscious  mind,  like  the 
sensitive  instrument  it  is,  will  often  obey  or  respond  to 
outside  suggestions.  I  can't  go  into  all  this,  of  course.  But 
what  I  ask  you  to  believe  about  Miss  Blake  is  this :  In  her 
present  state  of  trance,  at  my  suggestion,  she  has  played 
the  right  record  for  us!  She  has  automatically  written 


186  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

down  for  us  an  account  of  her  experiences  last  evening. 
And  I  assure  you  this  account,  obtained  in  this  way,  is  far 
more  reliable  and  far  more  complete  than  any  she  could 
give  us  in  her  normal,  conscious,  waking  state.  There's 
nothing  marvellous  or  weird  about  it,  Conlon.  "We  have 
here" — and  he  slightly  rattled  the  loose  sheets  in  his  hand 
— "simply  an  automatic  record  of  stored-up  impressions. 
Do  you  see?" 

Conlon  grunted  that  he  guessed  maybe  he  saw;  at  any 
rate,  he  was  willing  to  be  shown. 

Then  Doctor  Askew  read  us  Susan's  own  story  of  the 
strange,  idiotically  meaningless  accident  to  Gertrude.  As 
it  corresponded  in  every  particular  with  my  vision,  I  shall 
not  repeat  it ;  but  it  produced  an  enormous  impression  on 
Sergeant  Conlon  and  Maltby,  and  even  on  Lucette.  Taken 
in  connection  with  my  independent  theory  of  what  must 
have  occurred,  they  found  Susan's  story  entirely  con- 
vincing; though  whether  Lucette  really  found  it  so  or  had 
suddenly  decided — because  of  certain  uncomfortable  accu- 
sations against  herself  made  by  Susan's  hand — that  the 
whole  matter  had  gone  quite  far  enough  and  any  further 
publicity  would  be  a  mistake,  I  must  leave  to  your  later 
judgment. 

As  for  the  coroner,  when  at  length  he  arrived,  he  too — 
to  my  astonishment  and  unspeakable  relief — accepted 
Susan's  automatic  story  without  delay  or  demur.  Here 
was  a  stroke  of  sheer  good  luck,  for  a  grateful  change — 
but  quite  as  senseless  in  itself,  when  seriously  considered, 
as  the  cruel  accident  to  Gertrude.  It  merely  happened 
that  the  coroner's  sister  was  a  professional  medium,  and 
that  he  and  his  whole  family  were  ardent  believers  in 
spiritualism,  active  missionaries  in  that  cause.  He  had 
started  life  as  an  East  Side  street-urchin,  had  the  coroner, 
and  had  scrambled  up  somehow  from  bondage  to  influence, 
fighting  his  way  single-fisted  through  a  hard  school  that 
does  not  often  foster  illusions;  but  I  have  never  met  a 
more  eagerly  credulous  mind.  He  accepted  the  automatic 
writing  as  eyidence  without  a  moment's  cavil,  assuring  us 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  187 

at  once  that  it  undoubtedly  came  as  a  direct  message  from 
the  dead. 

Doctor  Askew 's  preliminary  explanations  he  simply 
brushed  aside.  If  Miss  Blake  in  her  present  trance  state, 
which  he  soon  satisfied  himself  was  genuine,  had  produced 
this  message,  then  her  hand  had  been  controlled  by  a  dis- 
embodied spirit — probably  Mrs.  Hunt's.  There  was  no 
arguing  with  the  man,  and  on  my  part,  heaven  knows,  no 
desire  to  oppose  him!  I  listened  gratefully  for  one  hour 
to  his  wonder  tales  of  spirit  revelations,  and  blessed  him 
when  he  reluctantly  left  us — with  the  assurance  that  Ger- 
trude's death  would  be  at  once  reported  as  due  to  an 
unavoidable  accident.  It  was  so  announced  in  the  noon 
editions  of  the  evening  papers.  Sergeant  Conlon  and  his 
aids  departed  by  the  service  elevator,  and  were  soon 
replaced  by  a  shocked  and  grieved  clergyman  and  a  com- 
petent undertaker.  The  funeral — to  take  place  in  New 
Haven — was  arranged  for ;  telegrams  were  sent ;  one  among 
them  to  Phil.  Even  poor  Miss  Goucher  was  at  last  remem- 
bered  and  communicated  with — only  just  in  time,  I  fear, 
to  save  her  reason.  But  of  her  more  in  its  place.  And, 
meanwhile,  throughout  all  this  necessary  confusion,  Susan 
slept  on.  Noon  was  past,  and  she  still  slept.  .  .  .  And 
Doctor  Askew  and  I  watched  beside  her,  and  talked  to- 
gether. 

At  precisely  seven  minutes  to  three — I  was  bending  over 
her  at  the  moment,  studying  her  face  for  any  sign  of  stir- 
ring consciousness — she  quietly  opened  her  eyes. 

"Ambo,"  were  her  first  words,  "I  believe  in  God  now; 
a  God,  anyway.  I  believe  in  Setebos " 


In  my  un  practiced,  disorderly  way — in  the  hurry  of  my 
desire  to  get  back  to  Susan — I  have  again  overstepped 
myself  and  must,  after  all,  pause  to  make  certain  necessary 
matters  plain.  There  is  nothing  else  for  it.  I  have,  on 
reflection,  dropped  too  many  threads — the  thread  of  my 


188  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

own  vision,  the  thread  of  those  first  two  or  three  pages 
scrawled  by  Susan  before  her  hand  had  fully  responded  to 
Doctor  Askew 's  control;  other  weakly  fluttering,  loose- 
ended  threads !  My  respect  for  the  great  narrative  writers 
is  increasing  enormously,  as  I  bungle  onward.  "Order  is 
heaven's  first  law,"  and  I  wish  to  heaven  it  might  also 
more  instinctively  be  mine ! 

Just  after  the  coroner's  departure  Maltby  left  us,  but 
before  he  left  I  insisted  upon  a  brief  talk  with  him  in 
Lucette's  presence.  I  was  in  no  mood  for  tact. 

"Maltby,"  I  said,  "I  can't  stop  now  for  anything  but 
the  plain  statement  that  you've  been  a  bad  friend — to 
Susan  and  me.  As  for  you,  Lucette,  it's  perfectly  clear 
now  that  Susan  believes  you  responsible  for  spreading  a 
slanderous  lie  about  her.  Between  you,  directly  or  in- 
directly, you've  managed  to  get  it  believed  down  here  that 
Susan  has  been  my  mistress  and  was  forced  to  leave  New 
Haven  because  the  scandal  had  grown  notorious.  That's 
why  Susan  came  here,  determined  to  see  you,  Lucette; 
that's  why  Gertrude  received  her.  Gertrude  was  never 
underhanded,  never  a  sneak.  My  guess  is,  that  she  sus- 
pected you  of  slandering  Susan,  but  wasn  't  sure ;  and  then 
Susan's  unexpected  call  on  you " 

Lucette  flared  out  at  this,  interrupting  me.  "I'm  not 
particularly  interested  in  your  guesswork,  Ambrose  Hunt! 
We've  had  a  good  deal  of  it,  already.  Besides,  I've  a  rag- 
ing headache,  and  I'm  too  utterly  heartsick  even  to  resent 
your  insults.  But  I'll  say  this:  I've  very  strong  reasons 
for  thinking  that  what  you  call  a  lying  slander  is  a  fact. 
Mr.  Phar  can  tell  you  why — if  he  cares  to. ' ' 

With  that,  she  walked  out  of  the  room,  and  I  did  not  see 
her  again  until  we  met  in  New  Haven  at  Gertrude's 
funeral,  on  which  occasion,  with  nicely  calculated  pub- 
licity, she  was  pleased  to  cut  me  dead. 

When  she  had  gone  I  turned  on  Maltby. 

"Well?"  I  demanded. 

Maltby,  I  saw,  was  something  more  than  ill-at-ease. 

"Now  see  here,  Boz,"  he  began,  "can't  we  talk  this  over 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  189 

•without  quarreling?  It's  so  stupid,  I  mean — between  men 
of  the  world."  I  waited,  without  responding.  "I'll  be 
frank  with  you,"  he  mumbled  at  me.  "Fact  is,  old  man, 
that  night — the  night  Phil  Farmer  said  Susan  wanted  to 
see  you — was  waiting  for  you  in  your  study — remember? 
You  promised  to  rejoin  me  shortly  and  talk  things  out.  .  .  . 
But  you  didn't  come  back.  Naturally,  I've  always  sup- 
posed since  then ' ' 

"You  have  a  scoundrelly  imagination !"  I  exclaimed. 

His  face,  green-pale  from  loss  of  sleep,  slowly  mottled 
with  purplish  stains. 

"Years  of  friendship,"  he  stumbled,  thick- voiced, 
through  broken  phrases.  "Wouldn't  take  that  from  any 
one  else.  .  .  .  Not  yourself.  .  .  .  Question  of  viewpoint, 

really.  .  .  .  I'd  be  the  last  to  blame  either  of  you,  if ' 

However " 

"Maltby,"  I  said,  "you're  what  I  never  thought  you — 
a  common  or  garden  cad.  That's  my  deliberate  opinion. 
I  've  nothing  more  to  say  to  you. ' ' 

For  an  instant  I  supposed  he  was  going  to  strike  me. 
It  is  one  of  the  major  disappointments  of  my  life  that 
he  did  not.  My  fingers  ached  for  his  throat. 

Later,  with  the  undertaker  efficiently  in  charge  of  all 
practical  arrangements,  and  while  Susan  still  hid  from  iis 
behind  her  mysterious  veil,  I  talked  things  out  with  Doctor 
Askew,  giving  him  the  whole  story  of  Susan  as  clearly  and 
unreservedly  as  I  could.  My  purpose  in  doing  so  was  two- 
fold. I  felt  that  he  must  know  as  much  as  possible  about 
Susan  before  she  woke  again  to  what  we  call  reality.  "What 
I  feared  was  that  this  shock — which  had  so  profoundly 
and  so  peculiarly  affected  her — might,  even  after  the  long 
and  lengthening  trance  had  passed,  leave  some  mark  upon 
her  spirit,  perhaps  even  some  permanent  cloud  upon  her 
brain.  I  had  read  enough  of  these  matters  to  know  that 
my  fear  was  not  groundless,  and  I  could  see  that  Doctor 
Askew  welcomed  my  information — felt  as  keenly  as  I  did 
that  he  might  later  be  called  upon  to  interpret  and  deal 
with  some  perplexing  borderland  condition  of  the  mind. 


190  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

It  was  as  well  at  least  to  be  prepared.  That  was  my  major 
purpose.  But  connected  with  it  was  another,  more  self- 
regarding.  My  own  vision,  my  psychic  reel,  greatly  dis- 
turbed me.  It  was  not  orthodox.  It  could  not  be  explained, 
for  example,  as  something  swiftly  fabricated  from  covert 
memories  by  my  unconscious  mind,  and  forced  then  sharply 
into  consciousness  by  some  freak  of  circumstance,  some 
psychic  perturbation  or  strain. 

My  vision  of  the  accident  itself — of  the  manner  of  its 
occurrence — might  conceivably  have  been  such  a  fabrica- 
tion, subconsciously  elaborated  from  the  facts  given  me 
by  Conlon;  not  so  my  vision  of  its  setting.  I  had  seen  in 
vivid  detail  the  interior  of  a  room  which  I  had  never 
entered  and  had  never  heard  described;  and  every  detail 
thus  seen  was  minutely  accurate,  for  I  had  since  examined 
the  room  and  had  found  nothing  in  it  unfamiliar,  nothing 
that  did  not  correspond  with  what  my  mind's  eye  had 
already  noted  and  remembered.  Take  merely  one  instance 
— the  pattern  and  color  scheme  of  the  Chinese  rug  beside 
the  chaise-longue.  As  an  amateur  in  such  matters  I  could 
easily,  in  advance  of  physically  looking  at  it,  have  cata- 
logued that  rug  and  have  estimated  its  value  to  a  collector. 
How  then  to  account  for  this  astounding  clairvoyance?  I 
could  not  account  for  it  without  widening  my  whole  con- 
ception of  what  was  psychically  possible.  Seated  with  Doc- 
tor Askew  in  the  room  where  Susan  lay  withdrawn  from 
ns,  from  our  normal  world  of  limited  concrete  perceptions, 
I  was  oppressed  as  never  before  by  the  immensity  and 
deluding  vagueness  of  the  unknown.  What  were  we,  we 
men  and  women  ?  Eternal  forces,  or  creatures  of  an  hour  ? 
An  echo,  from  days  long  past  returned  to  me,  Phil's  quiet, 
firm  voice  demanding — of  Maltby,  wasn't  it?  Yes,  yes, 
of  course — demanding  of  Maltby:  "What  is  the  world,  may 
I  ask?  And  what  is  Susan?" 

Doctor  Askew  cross-questioned  me  closely  as  we  sat  there, 
a  little  off  from  Susan,  our  eyes  seldom  leaving  her  face. 
"You  must  have  patience,"  he  kept  assuring  me  in  the 
midst  of  his  questioning.  "It  will  be  much  better  for  her 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  191 

to  come  out  of  this  thing  tranquilly,  by  herself.  "We  're  not 
really  wasting  time."  When  his  cross-questioning  was 
•ver  he  sat  silent  for  a  long  time,  biting  at  his  upper  lip, 
tapping  one  foot — almost  irritably,  I  thought — on  the  par- 
quet floor. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  he  said  finally,  in  his  abrupt  way.  "I 
don't  like  it  because  I  believe  you're  telling  the  truth.  If 
I  could  only  persuade  myself  that  you  are  either  lying  or 
at  least  drawing  a  long  bow" — he  gave  a  little  disgusted 
snort  of  laughter — "it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  me!" 

"Why?" 

"Why?  Because  you're  upsetting  my  scientific  convic- 
tions. My  mind  was  all  tidied  up,  everything  nicely  in 
order,  and  now  you  come  raging  through  it  with  this  ridicu- 
lous tale  of  a  sudden  hallucinating  vision — of  seeing  things 
that  you'd  never  seen,  never  heard  described — whose  very 
existence  you  were  completely  unaware  of !  Damn  it !  I  'd 
give  almost  anything  to  think  you  a  cheerful  liar — or  self- 
deceived!  But  I  can't." 

"Still,  you  must  have  met  with  similar  cases?" 

"Never,  as  it  happens,  with  one  that  I  couldn't  explain 
away  to  my  own  satisfaction.  That's  what  irritates  me 
now.  I  can't  explain  you  away,  Mr.  Hunt.  I  believe  you 
had  that  experience  just  as  you  describe  it.  Well,  then,  if 
you  had — what  follows?"  He  pulled  for  a  moment  or  two 
at  a  stubby  end  of  red  mustache. 

"What  does?"  I  suggested. 

"One  of  three  things,"  he  replied,  "all  equally  impos- 
sible. Either  your  vision — to  call  it  that — was  first 
recorded  in  the  mind  of  another  living  person  and  trans- 
ferred thence  to  yours — or  it  was  not.  If  it  wasn't,  then 
it  came  direct  from  God  or  the  devil  and  was  purely  mirac- 
ulous! With  your  kind  permission,  we'll  rule  that  out. 
But  if  it  was  first  recorded  in  the  mind  of  another  living 
person,  then  we're  forced  to  accept  telepathy — complete 
thought  transference  from  a  distance — accept  it  as  a  fact. 
I  never  have  so  accepted  it,  and  hate  like  hell  to  do  it  now ! 
And  even  if  I  could  bring  myself  to  accept  it,  my  troubles 


192  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

have  only  begun.  From  whose  mind  was  this  exact  vision 
of  the  accident  to  Mrs.  Hunt  transferred  to  yours  ?  So  far 
as  I  can  see,  the  detailed  facts  of  it  could  have  been  regis- 
tered in  the  minds  of  only  two  persons — Miss  Blake  and 
your  wife.  Isn  't  that  so  ? " 

I  agreed. 

"All  right.  See  where  that  leaves  us!  At  the  time  you 
received  this  vision,  Miss  Blake  is  lying  here  in  a  deep 
trance,  unconscious;  and  your  wife  is  dead.  Which  of 
these  incredible  sources  of  information  do  you  prefer?  It's 
a  matter  of  indifference  to  me.  Either  way  my  entire  rea- 
soned conception  of  the  universe  topples  in  ruins ! ' ' 

"But  surely,"  I  protested,  "it  might  have  come  to  me 
from  Miss  Blake,  as  you  suggest,  without  our  having  to 
descend  to  a  belief  in  spirit  communication?  Let's  rule 
that  out,  too!" 

"As  you  please,"  smiled  Doctor  Askew,  pretty  grimly. 
"If  you  find  it  easier  to  believe  your  vision  came  from  Miss 
Blake,  do  so  by  all  means !  Personally,  I  've  no  choice.  I 
can  accept  the  one  explanation  quite  as  readily  as  the 
other.  Which  means,  that  as  a  thinking  being  I  can  accept 
neither!  Both  are — absurd.  So  I  can  go  no  further — 
unless  by  a  sheer  act  of  faith.  I  'm  baffled,  you  see — in  my 
own  field;  completely  baffled.  That's  what  it  comes  to. 
And  I  find  it  all  devilishly  annoying  and  inconvenient. 
Don't  you?" 

I  did  not  reply.  For  a  time  I  mused,  drearily  enough, 
turning  many  comfortless  things  over  in  my  mind.  Then 
I  drew  from  my  pocket  the  three  sheets  scribbled  by 
Susan's  hand,  before  it  had  responded  to  Doctor  Askew 's 
insistent  suggestions. 

"Doctor,"  I  asked,  handing  him  the  scribbled  pages,  "in 
view  of  all  I've  told  you,  doesn't  what  Miss  Blake  has 
written  here  strike  you  as  significant?  You  see,"  I  added, 
while  he  glanced  through  them,  "how  strongly  her  re- 
pressed feelings  are  in  revolt  against  me — against  the 
tyranny  of  my  love  for  her.  Doesn't  it  seem  improbable, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  193 

then,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  that  my  vision  could  have  come 
from  that  direction?" 

He  was  reading  the  pages  through  again,  more  slowly. 
"Jimmy?"  he  queried  to  himself.  "Oh,  yes — Jimmy's  the 
boy  you  spoke  of.  I  see — I  see. ' '  He  looked  up,  and  I  did 
my  best  to  smile. 

' '  That 's  a  bitter  dose  of  truth  for  me,  doctor ;  but  thank 
God  it  came  in  this  way — came  in  time!" 

Except  for  the  punctuation,  which  I  have  roughly  sup- 
plied, the  three  pages  read  as  follows: 

"A  net.  No  means  of  escape  from  it.  To  escape — some- 
how. Jimmy Only  wretchedness  for  Ambo — for  us 

both.  How  can  he  care !  Insufferably  self-satisfied ;  child- 
ishly blind.  I  won't — I  won't — not  after  this.  No  escape 
from  it — my  net.  But  the  inner  net — Ambo's — binding 
him,  too.  Some  way  out.  A  dead  hand  killing  things.  My 
own  father.  How  he  killed  and  killed — always — more  than 
he  knew.  Blind.  Never  felt  that  before  as  part  of  me — 
of  me.  Wrong  way  round  though — it  enfolds — smothers. 
I'm  tangled  there — part  of  it — forever  and  ever.  Setebos 
— God  of  my  father — Setebos  knows.  Oh,  how  could  I 
dream  myself  free  of  it  like  others — how  could  !<  A  net — 
all  a  net — no  breaking  it.  Poor  Ambo — and  his  love  too— 
a  net.  It  shan't  hold  me.  I'll  gnaw  through — mouselike. 
I  must.  Fatal  for  Ambo  now  if  it  holds  me.  Fatal — 
Setebos — Jimmy  will " 

"Hum,"  said  Doctor  Askew  quietly. 

"That  doesn't  help  me  much,"  I  complained. 

"No,"  he  responded;  "but  I  can't  see  that  all  this  has 
any  bearing  on  the  possible  source  of  your  vision." 

"I  only  thought  that  perhaps  this  revelation  of  a  re- 
pressed inner  revolt  against  me " 

"Yes,  I  see.  But  there's  no  reasoning  about  the  unthink- 
able. I've  already  said  I  can  make  nothing  of  your  vision 
— nothing  I'm  yet  prepared  to  believe."  He  handed  the 
three  sheets  back  to  me  with  these  words:  "But  I'm  afraid 
your  interpretation  of  this  thing  is  correct.  It's  a  little 


194  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

puzzling  in  spots — curious,  eh,  the  references  to  Setebos? — 
still,  if  I  were  you,  Mr.  Hunt,  I  should  quietly  withdraw 
from  a  lost  cause.  It'll  mean  less  trouble  all  round  in  the 
end. ' '  He  shook  his  head  impatiently.  ' '  These  sexual  mud- 
dles— it's  better  to  see  'em  out  frankly!  They're  always 
the  devil,  anyway!  What  silly  mechanisms  we  are — hoxr 
Nature  makes  puppet-fools  of  us !  That  lovely  child  there 
— she  admires  you  and  wants  to  love  you,  because  you  love 
her.  Why  shouldn't  she?  What  could  be  a  happier 
arrangement — now?  You've  had  your  share  of  marital 
misfortune,  I  should  say.  But  Nature  doesn  't  give  a  damn 
for  happy  arrangements!  God  knows  what  she's  after,  I 
don't !  But  just  at  present  she  seems  to  be  loading  the  dice 
for  Jimmy — for  Jimmy,  who  perhaps  isn't  even  interested 
in  the  game !  Well,  such — for  our  misery  or  amusement — 
is  life!  And  my  cigarettes  are  gone,  .  .  .  How  about 
yours ?" 

VI 

It  did  not  take  Susan  long  to  make  it  perfectly  clear 
to  Doctor  Askew  and  me  that  she  had  waked  from  her 
trance  to  complete  lucidity,  showing  no  traces  of  any  of 
the  abnormal  after-effects  we  had  both  been  dreading.  Her 
first  rather  surprising  words  had  been  spoken  just  as  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  before  she  had  quite  realized  any- 
thing but  my  familiar  presence  beside  her.  They  were 
soon  followd  by  an  entirely  natural  astonishment  and  con- 
fusion. What  had  happened?  Where  was  she?  She  sat 
up  in  bed  and  stared  about  her,  her  eyes  coming  to  rest 
on  Doctor  Askew 's  eager,  observant  face. 

' '  Who  are  you  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"Doctor  Askew,"  he  replied  quietly.  "Don't  be 
alarmed,  Miss  Blake.  Mr.  Hunt  and  I  have  been  looking 
after  you.  Not  that  you've  been  much  trouble,"  he  smiled ; 
"on  the  contrary.  You've  been  fast  asleep  for  more  than 
twelve  hours.  We  both  envy  you." 

For  a  long  two  minutes  she  did  not  reply.  Then,  "Oh, 
yes,"  she  said.  "Oh,  yes."  Her  chin  began  to  quiver, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  195 

she  visibly  shuddered  through  her  whole  slight  frame,  and 
for  an  instant  pressed  her  palms  hard  against  her  eyes. 
"Ambo,"  she  murmured,  "it  was  cruel — worse  than  any- 
thing! I  got  to  the  'phone  all  right,  didn't  I?  Yes,  I 
remember  that.  I  gave  the  message.  But  I  knew  I  must 
go  back  to  her.  So  much  blood,  Ambo.  .  .  .  I  'm  a  coward 
— oh,  I'm  a  coward!  But  I  tried,  I  did  try  to  go  back! 
Where  did  I  go,  Ambo?" 

"You  went  to  sleep  like  a  sensible  little  woman !"  struck 
in  Doctor  Askew,  briskly.  "You'd  done  all  you  could,  all 
anyone  could — so  you  went  to  sleep.  I  wish  to  God  more 
women  under  such  circumstances  would  follow  your 
example!  Much  better  than  going  all  to  pieces  and  mak- 
ing a  scene ! ' ' 

Susan  could  not  respond  to  his  encouraging  smile.  "To 
sleep!"  she  sighed  miserably;  "just  as  I  did — once  before. 
"What  a  coward  I  am !  When  awful  things  happen,  I  dodge 
them — I  run  away." 

' '  Nonsense,  dear.  You  knew  Gertrude  was  beyond  help- 
ing, didn't  you?" 

"Yes;  but  if  she  hadn't  been?"  She  shook  her  head 
impatiently.  "You're  both  trying  to  be  kind;  but  you 
won't  be  able  to  make  me  forgive  myself — not  this  time. 
I  don 't  rise  to  a  crisis — I  slump.  Artemis  wouldn  't  have ; 
nor  Gertrude.  You  know  that's  true,  Ambo.  Even  if  I 
could  do  nothing  for  her — there  were  others  to  think  of. 
There  was  you.  I  ought  to  have  been  helping  you;  not 
you,  me."  She  put  out  her  hand  to  me.  "You've  done 
everything  for  me,  always — and  I  make  no  return.  Now, 
when  I  might  have,  I — I  've  been  a  quitter ! ' ' 

Tears  of  shame  and  self-reproach  poured  from  her  eyes. 
"Oh,"  she  cried  out  with  a  sort  of  fierce  disgust,  "how 
I  hate  a  coward !  How  I  hate  myself ! ' ' 

"Come,  come!"  protested  Doctor  Askew.  "This  won't 
do,  little  lady ! ' '  He  laid  a  firm  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
almost  roughly  shook  it,  as  if  she  had  been  a  boy.  "If 
you're  equal  to  it,  I  suggest  you  get  up  and  wash  your  face 
in  good  cold  water.  Do  your  hair,  too — put  yourself  to 


196  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

rights!  Things  never  look  quite  normal  to  a  woman,  you 
know,  when  her  hair's  tumbling!"  His  hand  slipped  from 
her  shoulder  to  her  upper  arm ;  he  drew  the  coverlet  from 
her,  and  helped  her  to  rise.  "All  right?  Feel  your  pins 
under  you?  .  .  .  Fine!  Need  a  maid?  No?  ...  Splen- 
did !  Come  along,  Mr.  Hunt,  we  '11  wait  for  the  little  lady 
in  the  drawing-room.  She'll  soon  pull  herself  together." 

He  joined  me  and  walked  with  me  to  the  door.  Susan 
had  not  moved  as  yet  from  the  bedside. 

"Ambo,"  she  demanded  unexpectedly,  "does  Sister 
know?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Why  isn't  she  with  me  then?    Is  her  cold  worse?" 

"Rather,  I'm  afraid.  I've  sent  a  doctor  to  her,  with 
instructions  to  keep  her  in  bed  if  possible.  We'll  go  right 
down  when  you're  ready  and  feel  up  to  it." 

"Why  didn't  I  stay  with  her,  Ambo?  I  should  have. 
If  I  had,  all  this  wouldn't  have  happened.  It  was  pure 
selfishness,  my  coming  here  to  see  Mrs.  Arthur.  I  simply 
wanted  the  cheap  satisfaction  of  telling  her — oh,  no  mat- 
ter !  I  '11  be  ready  in  five  minutes  or  less. ' ' 

' '  Ah, ' '  laughed  Doctor  Askew,  ' '  then  we  know  just  what 
to  expect!  I'll  order  my  car  round  for  you  in  half  an 
hour. ' ' 

Phil  and  Jimmy  arrived  in  town  that  afternoon  and 
I  met  them  at  the  Brevoort,  where  the  three  of  us  took 
rooms,  with  a  sitting-room,  for  the  night.  I  told  them 
everything  that  had  occurred  as  fully  as  I  could,  with  one 
exception :  I  did  not  speak  of  those  first  three  pages  auto- 
matically scribbled  by  Susan's  hand.  Nor  did  I  mention 
my  impression — which  was  rapidly  becoming  a  fixed  idea — 
that  my  love  for  her  had  darkened  her  life.  This  was  my 
private  problem,  my  private  desolation.  It  would  be  my 
private  duty  to  free  Susan's  spirit  from  this  intolerable 
strain.  No  one  could  help  me  here,  not  even  Susan.  In 
all  that  most  mattered  to  me,  my  isolation  must  from  now 
on  be  complete. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  197 

All  else  I  told  them,  not  omitting  my  vision — the  whole 
wild  story.  And,  finally,  I  had  now  to  add  to  my  devil's 
list  a  new  misfortune.  We  had  found  poor  Miss  Goucher's 
condition  much  more  serious  than  I  had  supposed.  Doctor 
Askew  had  taken  us  down  in  his  car,  and  we  were  met  in 
the  nondescript  lower  hall  of  the  boarding-house  by  his 
friend,  Doctor  Carl — the  doctor  whom  I  had  sent  to  Miss 
Goucher  on  his  advice.  Miss  Goucher's  heavy  chest  cold, 
he  at  once  informed  us,  had  taken  a  graver  turn;  double 
pneumonia  had  declared  itself.  Her  fever  was  high  and 
she  had  lately  grown  delirious ;  he  had  put  a  trained  nurse 
in  charge.  The  crisis  of  the  disease  would  probably  be 
passed  during  the  next  twelve  hours;  he  was  doing  every- 
thing possible ;  he  hoped  for  the  best. 

Susan,  very  white,  motionless,  had  heard  him  out.  "If 
Sister  dies,"  she  had  said  quietly  when  he  ended,  "I  shall 
have  killed  her."  Then  she  had  run  swiftly  up  the  stairs 
and  the  two  doctors  had  followed  her.  I  had  remained 
below  and  had  not  again  seen  her;  but  Doctor  Askew  had 
returned  within  ten  minutes,  shaking  his  head. 

"No  one  can  say  what  will  happen,"  I  had  finally 
wrested  from  him.  "One  way  or  the  other  now,  it's  the 
flip  of  a  coin.  Carl's  doing  his  best — that  is,  nothing,  since 
there's  nothing  to  do.  I've  warned  him  to  keep  an  eye  on 
the  little  lady.  I'll  look  in  again  after  dinner.  Good-by. 
Better  find  a  room  and  get  some  sleep  if  you  can." 

There  was  little  doubt  that  Miss  Goucher's  turn  for  the 
worse  had  come  as  the  result  of  Susan's  disturbing  all- 
night  absence.  Susan  had  made  her  comfortable  and  left 
her  in  bed,  promising  to  be  home  before  twelve.  Miss 
Goucher  had  fallen  asleep  about  eleven  and  had  not  waked 
until  two.  The  light  she  had  left  for  Susan  had  not  been 
switched  off,  and  Susan's  bed,  which  stood  beside  her  own, 
was  unoccupied.  Feverish  from  her  bronchial  cold,  she 
was  at  once  greatly  alarmed,  and  sprang  from  her  bed  to 
go  into  the  sitting-room,  half  hoping  to  find  Susan  there 
and  scold  her  a  little  for  remaining  up  so  late  over  her 


198  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

work.  She  did  not  even  stop  to  put  on  a  dressing-gown  or 
find  her  slippers.  All  this  Susan  later  learned  from  her 
red-eyed  landlady,  Miss  O  'Neill,  whose  own  bedroom,  as  it 
happened,  was  just  beside  their  own.  Miss  O'Neill,  a 
meritorious  if  tiresome  spinster  of  no  particular  age,  had  at 
last  been  waked  from  heavy  and  well-earned  sleep  by  per- 
sistent knocking  at  her  door.  She  had  found  Miss  Goucher 
standing  in  the  unheated,  draughty  hall,  bare-footed,  in 
her  nightgown,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  mounting  fever 
while  her  teeth  chattered  with  cold. 

Like  a  sensible  woman  she  had  hurried  her  instantly 
back  to  bed,  and  would  have  gone  at  once  for  a  hot-water 
bottle,  if  Miss  Goucher  had  not  insisted  upon  a  hearing. 
Miss  O'Neill  was  abjectly  fond  of  Miss  Goucher,  who  had 
the  rare  gift  of  listening  to  voluble  commonplace  without 
impatience — a  form  of  sympathy  so  rare  and  so  flattering 
to  Miss  O'Neill's  so  often  bruised  self-esteem  that  she 
would  gladly — had  there  been  any  necessity — have  carried 
Miss  Goucher  rent-free  for  the  mere  spiritual  solace  of 
pouring  out  her  not  very  romantic  troubles  to  her.  She 
had  taken,  Susan  felt,  an  almost  voluptuous  pleasure  in 
this,  her  one  opportunity  to  do  something  for  Miss  Goucher. 
She  had  telephoned  Gertrude's  apartment  for  her:  "no 
matter  if  it  is  late!  I  won't  have  you  upset  like  this  for 
nobody!  They've  got  to  answer!"  And  she  had  talked 
with  some  man — "and  I  didn't  like  his  tone,  neither" — 
who  had  asked  her  some  rather  odd  questions,  and  had 
then  told  her  Miss  Blake  was  0.  K.,  not  to  worry  about 
Miss  Blake ;  she  'd  had  a  f ainting-spell  and  been  put  to  bed ; 
she'd  be  all  right  in  the  morning;  sure;  well,  he  was  the 
doctor,  he  guessed  he  ought  to  know!  "Queer  kind  of 
doctor  for  a  lady,"  Miss  O'Neill  had  opined;  "he  sounded 
more  like  a  mick!"  A  shrewd  guess,  for  he  was,  no  doubt, 
one  of  Conlon's  trusties. 

Miss  Goucher  had  then  insisted  that  she  was  going  to 
dress  and  go  up  at  once  to  Susan,  and  had  even  begun  her 
preparations  in  spite  of  every  protest,  when  she  was  seized 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  199 

with  so  stabbing  a  pain  in  her  chest  that  she  could  only 
collapse  groaning  on  the  bed  and  let  Miss  O'Neill  minister 
to  her  as  best  she  might  with  water  bottles  and  a  mustard 
plaster  borrowed  from  Number  Twelve.  .  .  . 

By  the  time  I  had  tardily  remembered  to  telephone  Miss 
Goucher  it  was  almost  nine  A.  M.,  and  it  was  Miss  O'Neill 
who  had  answered  the  call,  receiving  my  assurances  of 
Susan's  well-being,  and  informing  me  in  turn  that  poor 
Miss  Goucher  was  good  and  sick  and  no  mistake,  let  alone 
worrying,  and  should  she  send  for  a  doctor?  She  was  a 
Scientist  herself,  though  she'd  tried  a  mustard  plaster, 
anyway,  always  liking  to  be  on  the  safe  side;  but  Miss 
Goucher  wasn't,  and  so  maybe  she  ought.  At  this  point  I 
had  naturally  taken  charge. 

And  it  was  at  this  point  in  my  long,  often  interrupted 
relation  to  Phil  and  Jimmy  that  Phil  took  charge. 

"You're  going  to  bed,  Hunt — and  you're  going  now  I 
There 's  absolutely  nothing  further  you  can  do  this  evening, 
and  if  anything  turns  up  Jimmy  or  I  can  attend  to  it. 
You've  been  living  on  your  nerves  all  day  and  you  show 
it,  too  plainly.  We  don't  want  another  patient  to-mor- 
row. Run  out  and  get  some  veronal  powders,  Jimmy. 
Thanks.  No  protests,  old  man.  You  're  going  to  bed ! ' ' 

I  went ;  and,  drugged  with  veronal,  I  slept — slept  dream- 
lessly — for  fourteen  hours.  When  I  woke,  a  little  past  ten, 
Jimmy  was  standing  beside  me. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Hunt.  You  look  rested  up  some! 
How  -about  breakfast  ? ' '  His  greeting  went  through  all 
the  sounds  and  motions  of  cheerfulness,  but  it  was  counter- 
feit coin.  There  was  something  too  obviously  wrong  with 
Jimmy's  ordinarily  fresh  healthy-boy  face;  it  had  gone 
sallow  and  looked  pincushiony  round  the  eyes.  I  stared 
at  him  dully,  but  could  not  recall  anything  that  might 
account  for  this  alteration.  Only  very  gradually  a  faint 
sense  of  discomfort  began  to  pervade  my  consciousness. 
Hadn't  something  happened — once — something  rather  sad 
— and  rather  horrible?  When  was  it?  Where  was  I? 


200  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

And  then  the  full  gust  of  recollection  came  like  a  stiff 
physical  blow  over  my  heart.  I  sat  up  with  a  sharp  gasp 
for  breath.  .  .  . 

"Well!"  I  demanded.    "Miss  Goucher!    How  is  she?" 

"She's  dead,  sir,"  answered  Jimmy,  turning  away. 

"And " 

"She's  wonderful!"  answered  Jimmy. 

He  had  not  needed  Susan's  name. 

Yes,  in  a  sense,  Jimmy  was  right.  He  was  not  a  boy  to 
look  far  beneath  the  surface  effects  of  life,  and  throughout 
the  following  weeks  Susan's  surface  effect  was  indeed  won- 
derful. Apparently  she  stood  up  to  her  grief  and  mastered 
it,  developing  an  outer  stillness,  a  quietude  strangely  dis- 
quieting to  Phil  and  to  me.  Gentleness  itself  in  word  and 
deed,  for  the  first  time  since  we  had  known  her  she  became 
spiritually  reticent,  holding  from  us  her  deeper  thoughts. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  secretly  determined — God  knows  from 
what  pressure  of  lonely  sorrow — to  conventionalize  her  life, 
to  present  the  world  hereafter  nothing  but  an  even  surface 
of  unobtrusive  conformity.  This,  we  feared,  was  hereafter 
to  be  her  wounded  soul's  protection,  her  Chinese  Wall.  It 
had  not  somehow  the  feel  of  a  passing  mood ;  it  had  rather 
the  feel  of  a  permanent  decision  or  renunciation.  And  it 
troubled  our  hearts.  .  .  . 

I  spare  you  Gertrude's  funeral,  and  Miss  Goucher 's. 
The  latter,  held  in  a  small,  depressingly  official  mortuary 
x  chapel,  provided — at  a  price — by  the  undertaker,  was 
attended  only  by  Phil,  Jimmy,  Susan,  Sonia,  Miss  O'Neill 
and  me.  Oh — there  was  also  the  Episcopal  clergyman, 
whom  I  provided.  He  read  the  burial  service  profession- 
ally, but  well ;  it  is  difficult  to  read  it  badly.  There  are  a 
few  sequences  of  words  that  really  are  foolproof,  carrying 
their  own  atmosphere  and  dignity  with  them. 

Phil  and  I,  at  Susan's  request,  had  examined  Miss 
Goucher 's  effects  and  had  made  certain  inquiries.  She 
had  been  for  many  years,  we  found,  entirely  alone  in  the 
world — a  phrase  often,  but  seldom  accurately,  used.  It  is  a 
rare  thing,  happily,  to  discover  a  human  being  who  is 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  201 

absolutely  the  last  member  of  his  or  her  family  line ;  in 
Miss  Goucher's  case  this  aloiieness  was  complete.  But  so 
far  as  her  nonexistent  ancestors  were  concerned,  Miss 
Goucher,  we  ascertained,  had  every  qualification  necessary 
for  a  D.  A.  R. ;  forebears  of  hers  had  lived  for  generations 
in  an  old  homestead  near  Poughkeepsie,  and  the  original 
Ithiel  Goucher  had  fought  as  a  young  officer  under  Wash- 
ington. From  soldiering,  the  Gouchers  had  passed  on  to 
farming,  to  saving  souls,  to  school-teaching,  to  patent- 
medicine  peddling,  and  finally  to  drink  and  drugs  and 
general  desuetude.  Miss  Goucher  herself  had  been  a  last 
flare-up  of  the  primitive  family  virtues,  and  with  her  they 
were  now  extinct. 

All  this  we  learned  from  her  papers,  and  from  an  old 
lady  in  Poughkeepsie  who  remembered  her  grandfather, 
and  so  presumably  her  mother  and  father  as  well — though 
in  reply  to  my  letter  of  inquiry  she  forbore  to  mention 
them.  They  were  mentioned  several  times  in  letters  and 
legal  documents  preserved  by  Miss  Goucher,  but — except  to 
say  that  they  both  died  before  she  was  sixteen — I  shall 
follow  the  example  of  the  old  lady  in  Poughkeepsie.  She, 
I  feel,  and  the  Roman  poet  long  before  her,  had  what 
Jimmy  calls  the  "right  idea."  .  .  . 

Miss  Goucher,  always  methodical,  left  a  brief  and  char- 
acteristic will:  "To  Susan  Blake,  ward  of  Ambrose  Hunt, 
Esq.,  of  New  Haven,  Conn.,  and  to  her  heirs  and  assigns 
forever,  I  leave  what  little  personal  property  I  possess. 
She  has  been  to  me  more  than  a  daughter.  I  desire  to  be 
cremated,  believing  that  to  be  the  cleanest  and  least  trouble- 
some method  of  disposing  of  the  dead." 

That,  with  the  proper  legal  additions,  was  all.  Her 
desire  was  of  course  respected,  and  I  had  a  small  earthen- 
ware jar  containing  her  ashes  placed  in  my  own  family 
vault.  On  this  jar  Susan  had  had  the  following  words 
inscribed : 


MALVINA  GOUCHER 
A  GENTLE  WOMAN 


202  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

vn 

On  one  point  Susan  was  from  the  first  determined: 
Miss  Goucher's  death  should  make  no  difference  in  her 
struggle  for  independence;  she  would  go  on  as  she  had 
begun,  and  fight  things  through  to  a  finish  alone.  Neither 
Phil  nor  I  could  persuade  her  to  take  even  a  few  days  for 
a  complete  change  of  scene,  a  period  of  rest  and  recupera- 
tion. Simply,  she  would  not.  She  settled  down  at  once  to 
work  harder  than  ever,  turning  out  quotable  paragraphs 
for  Whim,  as  daring  as  they  were  sprightly ;  and  she  reso- 
lutely kept  her  black  hours  of  loneliness  to  herself.  That 
she  had  many  such  hours  I  then  suspected  and  now  know, 
but  on  my  frequent  visits  to  New  York — I  had  been 
appointed  administrator  of  Miss  Goucher  's  more  than  mod- 
est estate — she  ignored  them,  and  skillfully  turned  all  my 
inquiries  aside.  These  weeks  following  on  Miss  Goucher's 
death  were  for  many  reasons  the  unhappiest  of  my  life. 

Never  since  I  had  known  Susan,  never  until  now,  had 
our  minds  met  otherwise  than  candidly  and  freely.  Now, 
through  no  crying  fault  on  either  side — unless  through  a 
lack  of  imagination  on  mine — barriers  were  getting  piled 
up  between  us,  barriers  composed  of  the  subtlest,  yet  stub- 
bornest  misunderstandings.  Our  occasional  hours  together 
soon  became  a  drab  tissue  of  evasions  and  cross  purposes 
and  suppressed  desires.  Only  frankness  can  serve  me  here 
or  make  plain  all  that  was  secretly  at  work  to  deform  the 
natural  development  of  our  lives. 

There  are  plays — we  have  all  attended  them  to  our 
indignation — in  which  some  unhappy  train  of  events  seems 
to  have  been  irrationally  forced  upon  his  puppets  by  the 
author;  if  he  would  only  let  them  speak  out  freely  and 
sensibly,  all  their  needless  difficulties  would  vanish !  Such 
plays  infuriate  the  public  and  are  never  successful. 

"Good  Lord!"  we  exclaim.  "Why  didn't  she  say  she 
loved  him  in  the  first  place!" — or,  "If  he  had  only  told 
her  his  reasons  for  leaving  home  that  night ! ' ' 

We,  the  enlightened  public,  feel  that  in  the  shoes  of 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  208 

either  the  hero  or  the  heroine  we  must  have  acted  more 
wisely,  and  we  refuse  our  sympathy  to  misfortunes  that 
need  never  have  occurred.  Our  reaction  is  perhaps  inevi- 
table and  aesthetically  justified ;  but  I  am  wondering — I  am 
wondering  whether  two-thirds  of  the  unhappiness  of  most 
mortals  is  not  due  to  their  failure  clearly  to  read  another's 
thoughts  or  clearly  to  reveal  their  own?  Is  not  half,  at 
least,  of  the  misery  in  our  hearts  born  of  futile  misunder- 
standings, misunderstandings  with  which  any  sane  onlooker 
in  full  possession  of  the  facts  on  both  sides,  can  have  little 
patience,  since  he  instinctively  feels  they  ought  never  to 
have  taken  place?  But  it  is  only  in  the  theater  that  we 
find  such  an  onlooker,  the  audience,  miraculously  in  pos- 
session of  the  facts  on  both  sides.  In  active  life,  we  are 
doing  pretty  well  if  we  can  partly  understand  our  own 
motives;  we  are  supermen  if  we  divine  the  concealed, 
genuine  motives  of  another.  Certainly  at  this  period  Susan, 
with  all  her  insight,  did  not  seize  my  motives,  nor  was  I 
able  to  interpret  hers.  Hence,  we  could  not  speak  out! 
What  needed  to  be  said  between  us  could  not  be  said.  And 
the  best  proof  that  it  could  not  is,  after  all,  that  it  was 
not.  .  .  . 

The  conversation  that  ought  to  have  taken  place  between 
us  might  not  unreasonably  have  run  something  like  this: 

SUSAN  :  Ambo  dear — what  is  the  matter  ?  Heaven  knows 
there's  enough! — but  I  mean  between  us?  You've  never 
been  more  wonderful  to  me  than  these  past  weeks — and 
never  so  remote.  I  can  feel  you  edging  farther  and  farther 
away.  Why,  dear? 

I :  I  've  been  a  nuisance  to  you  too  long,  Susan.  What- 
ever I  am  from  now  on,  I  won't  be  that. 

SUSAN  :    As  if  you  could  be ;  or  ever  had  been  I 

I :  Don 't  try  to  spare  my  feelings  because  you  like  me — 
because  you  're  grateful  to  me  and  sorry  for  me !  I  've  had 
a  glimpse  of  fact,  you  see.  It's  the  great  moral  antiseptic. 
My  illusions  are  done  for. 

SUSAN:    What  illusions? 


204  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

I:  The  illusion  that  you  ever  have  really  loved  me. 
The  illusion  that  you  might  some  day  grow  to  lore  me.  The 
illusion  that  you  might  some  day  be  my  wife. 

SUSAN:  Only  the  last  is  illusion,  Ambo.  I  do  love  you. 
I'm  growing  more  in  love  with  you  every  day.  But  I  can't 
be  your  wife,  ever.  If  I  Ve  seemed  changed  and  sad — apart 
from  Sister's  death,  and  everything  else  that's  happened — 
it's  that,  dear.  It's  killing  me  by  half-inches  to  know  I  can 
never  be  completely  part  of  your  life — yours ! 

I: 

[But  I  can't  even  imagine  what  babble  of  sorrow  and 
joy  such  words  must  have  wrung  from  me !  Suppose  a 
decent  interval,  and  a  partial  recovery  of  verbal  control.] 

SUSAN:  You  shouldn't  have  rescued  me  from  Birch 
Street,  Ambo.  Everything's  made  it  plain  to  me,  at  last. 
But  I  've  already  ground  the  mud  of  it  into  your  life  now — 
in  spite  of  myself.  You'll  never  feel  really  clean  again. 

I :    "What  nonsense !    Susan,  Susan — dearest ! 

SUSAN  :  It  isn  't  nonsense.  You  forget ;  I  'm  a  specialist 
in  nonsense  nowadays.  Oh,  Ambo,  how  can  you  care  for 
me!  I've  been  so  insufferably  self-satisfied;  so  childishly 
blind!  My  eyes  are  wide  open  now.  I've  had  the  whole 
story  of  what  happened  that  awful  night — all  of  it — from 
Doctor  Askew.  He  thought  he  was  psycho-analyzing  me, 
while  I  pumped  it  out  of  him,  drop  by  drop.  And  I've 
been  to  Maltby,  too ;  yes,  I  've  been  to  Maltby,  behind  your 
back.  Ambo,  he  isn't  really  certain  yet  that  I  didn't  go 
crazy  that  night  and  kill  your  wife.  Neither,  I'm  sure,  is 
Mrs.  Arthur.  They've  given  me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt 
simply  because  they  dread  being  dragged  through  a  hor- 
rible scandal,  that's  all.  But  they're  not  convinced.  Of 
course,  Maltby  didn't  say  so  in  so  many  words,  but  it  was 
plain  as  plain !  He  was  afraid  of  me — afraid !  I  could 
feel  his  fear.  He  thinks  madness  is  in  my  blood.  "Well, 
lie's  right.  Not  just  as  he  means  it,  but  as  Setebos  means 
it — the  cruel,  jealous  God  of  this  world!  .  .  .  No,  wait, 
dear !  Let  me  say  it  out  to  you,  once  for  all.  My  father 
ended  a  brutal  life  by  an  insanely  brutal  murder,  then 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  205 

killed  himself;  my  own  father.  And  I've  never  all  those 
years  honestly  realized  that  as  part  of  my  life — part  of  me! 
But  now  I  do.  It's  there,  back  of  me.  I  can  never  escape 
from  it.  Oh,  how  could  I  have  imagined  myself  like  others 
— a  woman  like  others,  free  to  love  and  marry  and  have 
children  and  a  home !  How  could  I ! 

I:  Susan!  Is  that  all?  Is  it  really  all  that's  holding 
you  from  me?  Good  God,  dear!  Why,  I  thought  you— 
secretly — perhaps  even  unknown  to  yourself — loved 
Jimmy ! 

SUSAN  :    Jimmy  ?    You  thought 

I :  I  think  so  even  now.  How  can  I  help  it  ?  Look.  .  .  . 
[And  here  you  must  suppose  me  to  show  her  those  first 
scrawled  sheets,  written  automatically  by  her  hand.]  Per- 
haps I  'm  revealing  your  own  heart  to  you,  Susan — dragging 
to  light  what  you've  tried  to  keep  hidden  even  from  your- 
self. See,  dear.  "A  net.  No  means  of  escape  from  it. 
To  escape — somehow.  Jimmy " 

[And  then  Susan  would  perhaps  have  handed  back  those 
scrawled  pages  to  me  with  a  pitying  and  pitiful  smile.] 

SUSAN  : 

[Author's  Note:  This  carefully  written,  imaginary 
speech  has  been  deleted  in  toto  by  Censor  Susan  from  the 
page  proof — at  considerable  expense  to  me — and  the  fol- 
lowing authentic  confession  substituted  for  it  in  her  own 
hand.  But  she  doesn't  know  I  am  making  this  explanation, 
which  will  account  to  you  for  the  form  and  manner  of  her 
confession,  purposely  designed  to  be  a  continuation  of  my 
own  imaginary  flight.  In  admitting  this,  I  am  risking 
Susan's  displeasure;  but  conscience  forbids  me  to  let  you 
mistake  a  "genuine  human  document" — so  dear  to  the 
modern  heart — for  a  mere  effort  at  interpretation  by  an 
amateur  psychologist.  "What  follows,  then,  is  veracious,  is 
essentially  that  solemn  thing  so  dear  to  a  truth-loving 
generation — sheer  fact.] 

Ambo  dear,  I  can  explain  that,  but  not  without  a  long, 
unhappy  confession.  Must  I?  It's  a  shadowy,  inside-of- 
me  story,  awfully  mixed  and  muddled;  not  a  nice  story 


206  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

at  all.  Won 't  it  be  better,  all  round,  if  I  simply  say  again 
that  I  love  you,  not  Jimmy,  with  all  my  heart  ? 

[No  doubt  I  should  then  have  reached  for  her  hands, 
and  she  would  have  drawn  away.] 

Ah,  no,  dear,  please  not !  I  've  never  made  a  clean  breast 
of  it  all,  even  to  myself.  It's  got  to  be  done,  though,  Ambo, 
sooner  or  later,  for  both  our  sakes.  Be  patient  with  me. 
I'll  begin  at  the  beginning. 

I'm  ridiculously  young,  Ambo;  we  all  keep  forgetting 
how  young  I  am !  I  'm  an  infant  prodigy,  really ;  you  and 
Phil — and  God  first,  I  suppose — have  made  me  so.  And 
the  main  point  about  infant  prodigies  is  that  experience 
hasn't  caught  up  with  them.  They  live  in  things  they've 
imagined  from  things  they've  been  told  or  read,  live  on 
intuition  and  second-hand  ideas;  and  they've  no  means  of 
testing  their  real  values  in  a  real  world.  And  they  're  child- 
ishly conceited,  Ambo !  I  am.  Less  now  than  some  months 
ago ;  but  I  'm  still  pretty  bad.  .  .  . 

Well,  back  in  Birch  Street,  before  I  came  to  you,  when 
I  was  honestly  a  child,  I  lived  all  alone  inside  of  myself. 
I  lived  chiefly  on  stories  I  made  up  about  myself;  and  of 
course  my  stories  were  all  escapes  from  reality — from  the 
things  that  hurt  or  disgusted  me  most.  There  was  hardly 
anything  in  my  life  at  home  that  I  didn't  long  to  escape 
from.  You  can  understand  that,  in  a  general  way.  But 
there's  one  thing  you  perhaps  haven't  thought  about;  it's 
such  an  ugly  thing  to  think  about.  I  know  it  isn  't  modern 
of  me,  but  I  do  hate  to  talk  about  it,  even  to  you.  I  must, 
though.  You'll  never  understand — oh,  lots  of  later  things 
— unless  I  do. 

Love,  Ambo,  human  love,  as  I  learned  of  it  there  at 
home — and  I  saw  and  heard  much  too  much  of  it — fright- 
ened and  sickened  me.  It  was  swinish — horrible.  Most  of 
all  I  longed  to  escape  from  all  that !  I  couldn  't.  I  wonder 
if  anyone  ever  has  or  can  ?  We  are  made  as  we  are  made. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  longed  to  escape  from  it ;  but  my  very  made-up 
story  of  escape  was  a  disguised  romance.  Jimmy  was  to  be 
the  gentle  Galahad  who  would  some  day  rescue  me.  He 


THE  BOOK  OP  SUSAN  207 

had  done  battle  for  me  once  already — with  Joe  Gonfarone. 
But  some  day  he  would  come  in  white,  shining  armor  and 
take  me  far  away  from  all  the  mud  and  sweat  of  Birch 
Street  to  blue  distant  hills.  Artemis  was  all  mixed  up  in 
it,  too;  she  was  to  be  our  special  goddess;  our  free,  swift, 
cool-eyed  protector.  There  was  to  be  no  heartsick  shame, 
no  stuffiness  in  my  life  any  more  forever!  But  it  wasn't 
Jimmy  who  rescued  me,  Ambo.  You  did. 

Only,  when  we've  lived  in  a  dream,  wholly,  for  months 
and  months  and  months,  it  doesn  't  vanish,  Ambo ;  it  never 
vanishes  altogether;  it's  part  of  us — part  of  our  lives. 
Isn't  it?  Gertrude  was  once  your  dream,  dear;  and  the 
dream-Gertrude  has  never  really  vanished  from  your  life, 
and  never  will.  Ah,  don 't  I  know ! 

"Well,  then  you  rescued  me ;  and  you  and  Phil  and  Maltby 
and  Sister  and  books  and  Hillhouse  Avenue  and  France 
and  Italy  and  England,  and  my  Magic  Circle — everything 
— crowded  upon  me  and  changed  me  and  made  me  what 
I  am ;  if  I  'm  anything  at  all !  But  Birch  Street  had  made 
me  first ;  and  my  dreams.  .  .  . 

Ambo,  I  can  never  make  you  know  what  you've  been 
to  me,  never !  Cinderella 's  prince  was  nothing  beside  you, 
and  my  Galahad- Jimmy  a  pale  phantom!  I  shan't  try. 
And  I  can  never  make  you  know  what  a  wild  confusion 
of  storm  you  sent  whirling  through  me  when  I  first  felt  the 
difference  in  you — felt  your  man 's  need  of  me,  of  me,  body 
and  soul!  You  meant  me  not  to  feel  that,  Ambo;  but  I 
did.  I  was  only  seventeen.  And  my  first  reaction  was  all 
passionate  joy,  a  turbulent  desire  to  give,  give,  give — and 
damn  the  consequences !  It  was,  Ambo.  I  loved  you. 

But  given  you  and  me,  Ambo,  that  couldn't  last  long. 
You  're  too  moral — and  I  'm  too  complicated.  My  inner  pat- 
tern's  a  labyrinth,  full  of  queer  magic;  simple  emotions 
goon  get  lost  in  me,  lost  and  transformed.  And  please  don 't 
keep  forgetting  how  young  I  was,  and  still  am ;  how  little 
I  could  understand  of  all  I  was  conceited  enough  to  think 
I  understood!  "Well,  dear,  I  saw  you  struggling  to  sup- 
press your  love  for  me  as  something  wrong,  unworthy; 


208  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

something  that  could  only  harm  us  both.  And  then  all  that 
first,  swift,  instinctive  joy  went  out  of  me,  and  my  old 
fear  and  distrust  of  what  men  call  love  seized  me  again. 
"Stuffiness,  stuffiness  everywhere — it  leads  to  nothing  but 
stuffiness ! "  I  said.  ' '  I  hate  it.  I  won 't  let  it  rule  my  life. 
The  great  thing  is  to  keep  clear  of  it,  clean  of  it,  aloof 
and  free!"  The  old  Artemis-motive  swept  through  me 
again  like  a  hill- wind — but  it  came  in  gusts;  and  there 
were  days — weeks,  Ambo — w»hen  I  simply  wanted  to  be 
yours.  And  one  night  I  threw  myself  into  your  arms.  .  .  . 

But  the  next  day  I  was  afraid  again.  The  phrase  "pas- 
sion's slave"  got  into  my  head  and  plagued  me.  Then  you 
came  to  me  and  said,  "It's  the  end  of  the  road,  dear.  We 
can't  go  on."  That  changed  everything  once  more,  Ambo, 
in  a  flash.  That  was  my  crisis.  From  that  moment,  I  was 
madly  jealous  of  Gertrude ;  knew  I  always  had  been,  from 
the  first.  My  telegram  to  her  was  a  challenge  to  battle. 
It  was,  dear — and  I  lost.  She  came  back;  she  was  won- 
derful, too — her  way — and  the  old  Gertrude-dream  stirred 
in  you  again ;  just  stirred,  but  that  was  enough.  You  said 
to  yourself,  didn't  you?  that  perhaps  after  all  the  best  so- 
lution for  our  wretched  difficulties  was  for  Gertrude  to  re- 
turn to  her  home.  At  least,  that  would  end  things.  But 
you  couldn't  have  said  that  to  yourself  if  Gertrude  had 
been  really  repulsive  to  you.  The  old  dream  had  fluttered 
its  tired  wings,  once,  Ambo;  you  know  it  had! 

And  so  I  flopped  again,  dear !  I  was  sick  of  love ;  I  hated 
love !  I  said  to  myself,  ' '  I  won 't  have  this  stupid,  brutal, 
instinctive  thing  pushing  and  pulling  me  about  like  this! 
I'll  rule  my  own  life,  thanks — my  own  thoughts  and 
dreams!  Freedom's  the  thing — the  only  good  thing  in  life. 
I'll  be  free!  Ambo,  too,  must  learn  to  be  free.  We  can 
only  share  what's  honestly  best  in  both  of  us  when  at  last 
we  are  free ! ' ' 

My  Galahad-Jimmy  had  turned  up  again,  too.  Perhaps 
that  had  something  to  do  with  my  final  fiercest  revolt 
against  you.  I  don 't  know.  He  was  all  I  had  wanted  him 
to  be,  Ambo;  simple  and  straightforward  and  clean.  Oh, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  209 

he  had  his  white,  shining  armor  on,  bless  him!  But  I 
didn't  want  him  to  rescue  me,  for  all  that;  not  in  the  old 
way.  I  was  just  glad  my  dream-boy  had  come  a  little 
true;  that's  all.  You  were  jealous  of  him,  weren't  you? 
Confess !  You  needn  't  have  been. 

But  here  in  New  York,  with  Sister,  things  happened 
that  made  a  difference.  .  .  . 

First  of  all,  dear,  I  discovered  all  I  had  lost  in  losing 
you;  discovered  I  couldn't  be  free.  All  I  could  do  was  to 
make  some  kind  of  a  life  of  it;  for  Sister,  chiefly.  And  I 
tried ;  oh,  I  did  try !  Then  those  whispered  scandals  about 
us  began.  But  it  wasn  't  the  scandal  itself  that  did  for  me ; 
it  was  something  added  to  it — by  Mrs.  Arthur,  I  suppose — 
something  true,  Ambo,  that  I  Td  never  honestly  faced.  Sud- 
denly my  father  rose  from  the  dead!  Suddenly  I  was 
forced  to  feel  that  never,  never  under  any  conditions,  would 
it  have  been  possible  for  me  to  be  yours — bear  you  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  Suddenly  I  felt,  saw — as  I  should  have  seen  long 
ago — that  the  strain  of  evil,  perhaps  of  madness,  in  my 
father — the  strain  that  made  his  life  a  hell  of  black  pas- 
sions— must  end  with  me ! 

Here's  where  Jimmy  comes  back,  Ambo — and  it's  the 
worst  of  all  I  have  to  confess.  My  anxiety  was  all  for  you 
now:  not  for  myself.  I  happened  to  love  you  that  way. 
"Suppose,"  I  kept  thinking,  "suppose  something  should 
unexpectedly  make  it  possible  for  Ambo  to  ask  me  to  be 
his  wife?  Suppose  Gertrude  should  fall  in  love  herself 
and  insist  on  divorce  ?  Or  suppose  she  should  die  ?  Ambo 
would  be  certain  to  come  to  me.  And  if  he  did?  Should 
I  have  the  moral  courage  to  send  him  away?  As  I  must 
—I  must!" 

Dear,  from  that  time  on  a  sort  of  demon  in  me  kept 
suggesting:  "Jimmy — Jimmy's  the  solution!  He's  almost 
in  love  with  you  now ;  all  he  needs  is  a  little  encouragement. 
You  could  manage  it,  Susan.  You  could  engage  yourself 
to  Jimmy;  and  then  you  could  string  him  along!  You 
could  make  it  an  interminable  engagement,  years  and 
years  of  it,  and  break  it  off  when  Ambo  was  thoroughly 


210  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

discouraged  or  cured;  you're  clever  enough  for  that.  And 
Jimmy 's  ingenuousness  itself.  You  could  manage  Jimmy. ' ' 
Oh,  please  don't  think  I  ever  really  listened  to  my  demon, 
was  ever  tempted  by  him!  But  I  hated  myself  for  the 
mere  fact  that  such  thoughts  could  even  occur  to  me! 
They  did,  though,  more  than  once ;  and  each  time  I  had  to 
banish  them,  thrust  them  down  into  their  native  darkness. 

But  they  didn  't  die  there,  Ambo ;  they  lived  there,  a  hide- 
ous secret  life,  lying  in  wait  to  betray  me.  They  never 
will  betray  me,  of  course ;  I  loathe  them.  But  they  can  still 
stir  in  their  darkness,  make  themselves  known.  That's 
what  the  references  to  Jimmy  mean,  Ambo,  in  those  pages 
I  scribbled  in  my  trance;  and  that's  all  they  mean.  For 
I  don 't  love  him ;  I  love  you. 

But  I  can't  marry  you,  ever.  I  can't.  That  black 
strain  concentrated  in  my  father — oh,  it  must  die  out  with 
me!  Just  as  Sister's  line  ended  with  her.  .  .  .  She  ran 
away  from  the  one  love  of  her  life,  Ambo — just  as  I  must 
run  away  from  you.  You  never  knew  that  about  Sister. 
But  I  knew  it.  Sonia  told  me.  Sister  told  her,  the  week 
before  Sonia  married.  Sister  felt  then  that  Sonia  ought  to 
run  away  from  all  that,  as  she  had.  But  Sonia  wouldn't 
listen  to  her.  .  .  . 

" Good  for  Sonia !"  I  might  then  have  cried  out.  "God 
bless  her!  Hasn't  she  made  her  husband  happy?  Aren't 
her  children  his  pride?  Why  in  heaven's  name  should 
she  have  denied  herself  the  right  to  live !  And  for  a  mere 
possibility  of  evil !  As  if  the  blood  of  any  human  family  on 
earth  were  wholly  sound,  wholly  blameless!  Sonia  was 
selfish,  but  right,  dear;  and  Miss  Goucher  was  brave,  but 
wrong!  So  are  you  wrong!  Actually  inherited  feeble- 
mindedness, or  insanity,  or  disease — that's  one  thing;  but 
a  dread  of  mere  future  possibilities,  of  mere  supposed  ten- 
dencies! Good  Lord!  The  human  race  might  as  well 
commit  suicide  en  bloc!  It's  you  I  love — you — just  as  you 
are.  And  you  say  you  love  me.  Well,  that  settles  it!" 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  211 

But  who  knows?  It  might  have  settled  it  and  it  might 
not — could  any  such  imaginary  conversation  conceivably 
have  taken  place.  It  did  not  take  place.  We  are  deal- 
ing, worse  luck,  with  history. 

VIII 

Perhaps  six  weeks  after  Miss  Goucher's  death  one  little 
conversation,  just  skirting  these  hidden  matters,  did  take 
place  between  us ;  but  how  different  was  its  atmosphere,  and 
how  drearily  different  its  conclusion!  You  will  under- 
stand it  better  now  that — like  a  theater  audience,  or  like 
God — you  are  in  full  possession  of  Susan's  facts  and  of 
mine;  but  I  fear  it  will  interest  you  less.  To  know  all 
may  sometimes  be  to  forgive  all;  but  more  often,  alas,  it 
is  to  be  bored  by  everything.  .  .  . 

[Firmly  inserted  note,  by  Susan :  ' '  Rubbish !  It 's  only 
•when  we  think  we  know  it  all,  and  don't  really,  that  we 
are  bored."] 

I  had  taken  Susan  for  dinner  that  night  to  a  quiet  hotel 
uptown  where  I  knew  the  dining-room,  mercifully  lacking 
an  orchestra  and  a  cabaret,  was  not  well  patronized,  though 
the  cooking  was  exceptionally  good.  At  this  hotel,  by  a 
proper  manipulation  of  the  head  waiter,  it  is  often  possible 
to  get  a  table  a  little  apart  from  the  other  diners — an  ad- 
vantage, if  one  desires  to  talk  intimately  without  the  an- 
noyance of  being  overheard.  It  troubled  me  to  find  Susan 's 
appetite  practically  nonexistent;  I  had  ordered  one  or 
two  special  dishes  to  tempt  her,  but  I  saw  that  she  took 
no  pleasure  in  them,  merely  forcing  herself  to  eat  so  as 
not  to  disquiet  me.  She  was  looking  badly,  too,  all  gleam- 
less  shadow,  and  fighting  off  a  physical  and  mental  languor 
by  a  stubborn  effort  which  she  might  have  concealed  from 
another,  but  not  from  me.  It  was  only  too  plain  to  me  that 
her  wish  was  to  keep  the  conversation  safely  away  from 
whatever  was  busying  and  saddening  her  private  thoughts. 
In  this,  till  the  coffee  was  placed  before  us,  I  thought  best 


212  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

to  humor  her,  and  we  had  discussed  at  great  length  the 
proper  format  for  her  first  book  of  poems,  which  was  to 
appear  within  the  next  month.  Also,  we  had  discussed 
Hey  wood  Sampson's  now  rapidly  maturing  plans  for  his 
new  critical  review. 

"He  really  wants  me  on  his  staff,  Ambo,  and  I  really 
want  to  be  on  it — just  for  the  pleasure  of  working  with 
him.  It's  an  absolutely  unbelievable  chance  for  me!  And 
yet " 

"And  yet ?  Is  there  any  reason  why  you  shouldn't 

accept?" 

"At  least  two  reasons,  yes.  I'm  afraid  both  of  them  will 
surprise  you." 

"I  wonder." 

"Won't  they?  If  not,  Ambo,  you  must  suppose  you've 
guessed  them.  What  are  they?" 

Susan  rather  had  me  here.  I  had  not  guessed  them,  but 
wasn't  willing  to  admit  even  to  myself  that  I  could  not  if 
I  tried.  I  puckered  my  brows,  judicially. 

"Well,"  I  hesitated,  "you  may  very  naturally  feel  that 
'Dax'  is  too  plump  a  bird  in  the  hand  to  be  sacrificed 
for  Heywood's  slim  bluebird  in  the  bush.  Any  new  publi- 
cation 's  a  gamble,  of  course.  On  the  other  hand,  Hey  wood 
isn't  the  kind  to  leave  his  associates  high  and  dry.  Even 
if  the  review  should  fail,  he  11  stand  by  you  somehow.  He 
has  a  comfy  fortune,  you  know;  he  could  carry  on  the  re- 
view as  a  personal  hobby  if  he  cares  to,  even  if  it  never 
cleared  a  penny." 

Susan  smiled,  gravely  shaking  her  head:  "Cold,  dear; 
stone  cold.  I'm  pretty  mercenary  these  days,  but  I'm  not 
quite  so  mercenary  as  that.  Now  that  I've  discovered  I 
can  make  a  living,  I  'm  not  nearly  so  interested  in  it ;  hardly 
at  all.  It's  the  stupid  side  of  life,  always;  I  shouldn't 
like  it  to  make  much  difference  to  me  now,  when  it  comes 
to  real  decisions.  I  did  want  a  nice  home  for  Sister,  though. 
As  for  me,  any  old  room  most  anywhere  will  do.  It  will, 
Ambo;  don't  laugh;  I'm  in  earnest.  But  what's  your 
second  guess?"  she  added  quickly. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  213 

"You've  some  writing  you  want  to  do — a  book,  maybe? 
You're  afraid  the  review  will  interfere?" 
,     "Ah,  now  you're  a  tiny  bit  warmer !    I  am  afraid  it  will 
interfere,  but  in  a  much  deeper  way  than  that;  inter- 
fere with  me." 

"I  don't  quite  follow  that,  do  I!" 

,  "Good  gracious,  no — since  you  ask.  It's  simple  enough, 
though — and  pretty  vague.  Only  it  feels  important — 
here."  For  an  instant  her  hand  just  touched  her  breast. 
"I  hate  so  to  be  roped  in,  Ambo,  have  things  staked  out 
for  me — spiritually,  I  mean.  Mr.  Sampson's  a  darling;  I 
love  him !  But  he 's  a  great  believer  in  ropes  and  stakes 
and  fences — even  barbed  wire.  I'm  beginning  to  see  that 
the  whole  idea  of  his  review  is  a  scheme  for  mending  politi- 
cal and  moral  and  social  fences,  stopping  up  gaps  in  them 
made  by  irresponsible  idealists — anarchists,  revolutionary 
socialists — people  like  that.  People  like  me,  really! — 
There !  Now  you  do  look  surprised. ' ' 

I  was;  but  I  smiled. 

"You've  turned  Red,  Susan?  How  long  since?  Over- 
night?" 

' '  Not  red, ' '  answered  Susan,  with  bravely  forced  gayety ; 
"pinkish,  say!  I  haven't  fixed  on  my  special  shade  till 
I'm  sure  it  becomes  me." 

"It's  certain  to  do  that,  dear." 

She  bobbed  me  a  little  bow  across  the  cloth,  much  in  the 
old  happy  style — alas,  not  quite.  "But  I  never  did  like 
washed-out  colors, ' '  she  threw  in  for  good  measure. 

"You  are  irresponsible,  then!  Suppose  Phil  could  hear 
you — or  Jimmy.  Jimmy 'd  say  your  Greenwich  Village 
friends  were  corrupting  you.  Perhaps  they  are  ? ' ' 

"Perhaps  they  are,"  echoed  Susan,  "but  I  think  not. 
I'm  afraid  it  goes  farther  back,  Ambo.  It's  left-over 
Birch  Street;  that's  what  it  is.  So  much  of  me's  that. 
All  of  me,  I  sometimes  believe. ' ' 

;  "Not  quite.  You'll  never  escape  Hillhouse,  either, 
Susan.  You've  had  both." 


214  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"Yes,  I've  had  both,"  she  echoed  again,  almost  on  a 
sigh,  pushing  her  untasted  demi-tasse  from  her. 

Suddenly  her  elbows  were  planted  on  the  cloth  before 
her,  her  faee — shadowed  and  too  finely  drawn — dropped 
between  her  hands,  her  eyes  sought  and  held  mine.  They 
dizzied  me,  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

"Ambo,"  she  said  earnestly,  "I  suppose  I'm  a  dreadful 
egotist,  but  more  and  more  I'm  feeling  the  real  me  isn't 
a  true  child  of  this  world !  I  love  this  world — and  I  hate 
it.  I  don't  know  whether  I  love  it  most  or  hate  it  most. 
I  bless  it  and  damn  it  every  day  of  my  life — in  the  same 
breath  often.  But  sometimes  I  feel  I  hate  it  most — hate  it 
for  its  cold  dullness  of  head  and  heart!  Why  can't  we 
care  more  to  make  it  worth  living  in,  this  beautiful,  fright- 
ful world!  What's  the  matter  with  us?  Why  are  we 
what  we  are  ?  Half  angels — and  half  pigs  or  goats  or  saber- 
toothed  tigera  or  snakes!  Each  and  every  one  of  us,  by 
and  large !  And  oh,  how  we  do  distrust  our  three-quarters 
angels — while  they're  living,  anyway!  Dreamers — mad 
visionaries — social  rebels — outcasts !  Crucify  them,  crucify 
them !  Time  enough  to  worship  them — ages  of  to-be-wasted 
time  enough — when  they're  dead!"  She  paused,  still  hold- 
ing my  eyes,  and  drawing  in  a  slow  breath,  a  breath  that 
caught  midway  and  was  almost  a  sob;  then  her  eyes  left 
mine. 

"There — that's  over.  Saying  things  like  that  doesn't 
help  us  a  bit;  it's — silly.  .  .  .  And  half  the  idealists  are 
mad,  no  doubt,  and  have  plenty  of  pig  and  snake  in  them, 
too.  I've  simply  coils  and  coils  of  unregenerate  serpent 
in  me — and  worse.  Oh,  Ambo  dear — but  I've  a  dream  in 
me  beyond  all  that,  and  a  great  longing  to  help  it  come 
true !  But  it  doesn  't — it  won 't.  I  'm  afraid  it  never  will 
— here.  Will  it  there,  Ambo?  Is  there  a  there?  .  .  .  Have 
we  got  all  of  Sister  that  clean  fire  couldn't  take,  shut  up  in 
that  tiny  vase?" 

"We  can  hope  not,  at  least,"  I  replied. 

"Hope  isn't  enough,"  said  Susan.     "Why  don't  you 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  215 

say  yon  know  we  haven't!  I  know  we  haven't.  I  do 
know  it.  It's  the  only  thing  I — know!" 

A  nervous  waiter  sidled  up  to  us  and  softly  slipped  a 
small  metal  tray  before  me;  it  held  my  bill,  carefully 
turned  face  downward. 

''Anything  more,  sir?"  he  murmured. 

"A  liqueur?"  I  suggested  to  Susan.  She  sat  upright 
in  her  chair  again,  with  a  slight  impatient  shake  of  the 
head. 

I  ordered  a  cigar  and  a  fine  champagne.  The  waiter, 
still  nervously  fearful  of  having  approached  us  at  a  mo- 
ment when  he  suspected  some  intimate  q-uestion  of  the  heart 
had  grown  critically  tense,  faded  from  us  with  the  slight- 
est, discreetest  cough  of  reassurance.  He  was  not  one,  h« 
would  have  us  know,  to  obtrude  material  considerations 
when  they  were  out  of  place. 

"  No ;  I  can 't  go  with  Mr.  Sampson, ' '  Susan  was  saying ; 
"and  he'll  be  hurt — he  won't  be  able  to  see  why.  But 
I'm  not  made  to  be  an  editor — of  anything.  Editors  have 
to  weigh  other  people's  words.  I  can't  even  weigh  my  own. 
And  I  talk  of  nothing  but  myself.  Ugh ! ' ' 

"You're  tired  out,  overwrought,"  I  stupidly  J>egan. 

"Don't  tell  me  so!"  cried  Susan.  "If  I  should  believe 
you,  I'd  be  lost." 

"But,"  I  blundered  on,  "it's  only  common  sense  to  let 
down  a  little,  at  such  a  time.  If  you'd  only  take  a  real 
rest " 

"There  is  no  such  thing,"  said  Susan.  "We  just  strug- 
gle on  and  on.  It's  rather  awful,  isn't  it?"  And  pres- 
ently, very  quietly,  as  if  to  herself,  she  said  over  those 
words,  surely  among  the  saddest  and  loveliest  ever  writ- 
ten by  mortal  man : 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 


216  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

That  no  life  lives  forever, 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 
That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

"To  sea,"  she  repeated;  "to  sea.  ...  As  if  the  sea  itself 
knew  rest! — Now  please  pay  your  big  fat  bill  from  your 
nice  fat  pocketbook,  Ambo;  and  take  me  home." 

"If  I  only  could!"  was  my  despairing  thought;  and  I 
astounded  the  coat-room  boy,  as  I  tipped  him,  by  mutter- 
ing aloud,  "Oh,  damn  Jimmy  Kane!" 

"Yes,  sir — thank  you,  sir — I  will,  sir,"  grinned  the 
coat-room  boy. 

On  our  way  downtown  in  the  taxi  Susan  withdrew  until 
we  reached  her  West  Tenth  Street  door.  "Good-night, 
Ambo,"  she  then  said;  "don't  come  with  me;  and  thank 
you  for  everything — always. ' '  I  crossed  the  pavement  with 
her  to  the  loutish  brownstone  front-stoop  of  the  boarding 
house ;  there  she  turned  to  dismiss  me. 

"You  didn't  ask  my  second  reason  for  not  going  on  the 
review,  Ambo.  You  must  know  it  though,  sooner  or  later. 
I  can't  write  any  more — not  well,  I  mean.  Even  my  Dax 
paragraphs  are  falling  off;  Hadow  Bury  mentioned  it  yes- 
terday. But  nothing  comes.  I  'm  sterile,  Ambo.  I  'm  writ- 
ten out  at  twenty.  Bless  you.  Good-night." 

"Susan,"  I  cried,  "come  back  here  at  once!"  But  she 
just  turned  in  the  doorway  to  smile  back  at  me,  waved  her 
hand,  and  was  gone. 

I  was  of  two  minds  whether  to  follow  her  or  stay.  Then, 
"A  whim,"  I  thought;  "the  whim  of  a  tired  child.  And 
I've  often  felt  that  way  myself — all  writers  do.  But  she 
must  take  a  vacation  of  some  kind — she  must!" 

She  did. 

IX 

I  woke  up  the  next  morning,  broad  awake  before  seven 
o'clock,  a  full  hour  earlier  than  my  habit.  I  woke  to  find 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  217 

myself  greatly  troubled  by  Susan's  parting  words  of  the 
night  before,  and  lay  in  bed  for  perhaps  twenty  minutes 
turning  them  over  fretfully  in  my  mind.  Then  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer  and  rose,  bathed,  dressed  and  ate  my 
breakfast  in  self -exasperating  haste,  yet  with  no  very  clear 
idea  of  why  I  was  hurrying  or  what  was  to  follow.  I 
had  an  appointment  with  my  lawyer  for  eleven ;  I  was  to 
lunch  with  Heywood  Sampson  at  one ;  after  lunch — my  im- 
mediate business  in  town  being  completed — I  had  purposed 
to  return  to  New  Haven. 

Susan  would  be  expecting  me  for  my  daily  morning  call 
at  half -past  nine.  That  call  was  a  fixed  custom  between  us 
when  I  was  stopping  in  New  York.  It  seldom  lasted  over 
twenty  minutes  and  was  really  just  an  opportunity  to  say 
good-morning  and  arrange  conveniently  for  any  further 
plans  for  the  day  or  evening.  But  it  was  now  only  a  few 
minutes  past  eight.  No  matter,  Susan  was  both  a  night- 
hawk  and  a  lark,  retiring  always  too  late  and  rising  too 
early — though  it  must  be  said  she  seemed  to  need  little 
sleep ;  and  I  felt  that  I  must  see  her  at  once  and  try  some- 
how to  encourage  her  about  her  work  and  bring  her  back 
to  a  more  reasonable  and  normal  point  of  view.  "Over- 
strain," I  kept  mumbling  to  myself,  idiotically  enough, 
as  I  charged  rather  than  walked  down  Fifth  Avenue  from 
my  hotel:  "Overstrain — overstrain.  ..." 

However,  the  brisk  physical  exertion  of  my  walk  gradu- 
ally quieted  my  nerves,  and  as  I  turned  west  on  Tenth 
Street  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  ashamed  of  my  un- 
reasonable anxiety,  was  even  beginning  to  poke  a  little  fun 
at  myself  and  preparing  to  amuse  Susan  if  I  could  by 
a  whimsical  account  of  my  morning  brainstorm.  I  had  now 
persuaded  myself  that  I  should  find  her  quietly  at  work, 
as  I  so  usually  did,  and  quite  prepared  to  talk  things  over 
more  calmly.  I  meant  this  time  to  make  a  supreme  effort, 
and  really  hoped  to  persuade  her  to  do  two  sensible  things : 
First,  to  accept  Heywood  Sampson's  offer;  second,  to  give 
up  all  other  work  for  the  present,  and  get  a  complete  rest 


218  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

and  change  of  scene  until  her  services  were  needed  for 
the  review.  That  would  not  be  for  six  or  eight  weeks  at 
the  very  least. 

And  I  at  last  had  a  plan  for  her.  You  may  or  may  not 
remember  that  Ashton  Parker  was  a  famous  man  thirty 
years  ago ;  they  called  him  "Hyena  Parker"  in  "Wall  Street, 
and  no  doubt  he  deserved  it ;  yet  he  faded  gently  out  with 
consumption  like  any  spring  poet,  having  turned  theoso- 
phist  toward  the  end  and  made  his  peace  with  the  Cosmic 
Urge.  Mrs.  Ashton  Parker  is  an  aunt  of  mine,  long  a 
widow,  and  a  most  delightful,  easy-going,  wide-awake, 
and  sympathetic  old  lady,  who  has  made  her  home  in  Santa 
Barbara  ever  since  her  husband's  death  there.  Her  Span- 
ish villa  and  gardens  are  famous,  and  her  always  kindly 
eccentricities  scarcely  less  famous  than  they.  I  could  im- 
agine no  one  more  certain  to  captivate  Susan  or  to  be  in- 
stantly captivated  by  her ;  and  though  I  had  not  seen  Aunt 
Belle  for  more  than  ten  years,  I  knew  I  could  count 
on  her  in  advance  to  fall  in  with  my  plan.  Her  hos- 
pitality is  notorious  and  would  long  since  have  beggared 
anyone  with  an  income  less  absurd.  Susan  should  go  there 
at  once,  for  a  month  at  least;  the  whole  thing  could  be 
arranged  by  telegraph.  Why  in  heaven's  name  hadn't  I 
thought  of  and  insisted  upon  this  plan  before! 

Miss  O'Neill,  in  person,  opened  the  front  door  for  me. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hunt!"  she  wailed.  "Thanks  to  goodness 
you're  here  early.  I  can't  do  nothing  with  Togo.  He 
won't  eat  no  breakfast,  and  he  won't  let  nobody  touch  him. 
He's  sitting  up  there  like  a — I  don't  know  what,  with 
his  precious  tail  uncurled  and  his  head  sort  of  hanging 
down — it  '11  break  your  heart  to  look  at  him !  I  can 't  bear 
to  myself,  though  I'd  never  no  use  for  the  beast,  neither 
liking  nor  disliking!  He's  above  his  station,  I  say.  But 

what  with  all And  I've  got  to  get  that  room  cleared 

and  redone  by  twelve,  feelings  or  no  feelings,  and  Gawd 
knows  feelings  will  enter  in!  Not  half  Miss  Susan's  class 
either,  the  new  party  just  now  applied,  and  right  beside 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  219 

my  own  room,  too,  though  well  recommended,  so  I  ean't 
complain ! ' ' 

I  broke  through  her  dusty  web  of  words  with  an  im- 
patient "What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about,  Miss 
O'Neill?" 

"You  don't  know?"  she  gasped.    "You  don't 

"I  most  certainly  do  not.    Where's  Miss  Susan?" 
"Oh,  Mr.  Hunt !    If  I'd-a  knowed  she  hadn't  even  spoke 
to  you!     And  you  with  her  all  evening — treating  to  din- 
ner and  all!     But  thank  Gawd  it'*  a  reel  lady  she  went 
away  with!    Miss  Leslie,  in  her  big  limousine,  that's  often 
been  here!    That  I  can  swear  to  you  with  my  own  eyes!" 
Susan  was  gone,  and  gone  beyond  hope  of  an  immediate 
return.    There  is  no  need  to  labor  the  details  of  her  flight. 
A  letter,  left  for  me  with  Miss  O'Neill,  gives  all  the  surface 
facts  essential. 


"Dear  Ambo:  Try  not  to  be  angry  with  me ;  or  too  hurt 
When  I  left  you  last  night  I  decided  to  seize  an  oppor- 
tunity which  had  to  be  seized  instantly,  or  not  at  all.  Mona 
Leslie  has  been  planning  for  a  long  European  sojourn  all 
winter,  and  for  the  past  two  weeks  has  been  trying  to  per- 
suade me  to  go  with  her  as  a  sort  of  overpaid  companion 
and  private  secretary.  She  has  dangled  a  salary  before  me 
out  of  all  proportion  to  my  possible  value  to  her,  but — 
never  feeling  very  sympathetic  toward  her  sudden  whims 
and  moods — that  hasn't  tempted  me. 

"Now,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  literally,  thk  chance  for 
a  complete  break  with  my  whole  past  and  probable  fu- 
ture has  tempted  me,  and  I've  flopped.  You've  been 
urging  my  need  for  rest  and  change;  if  that's  what  I  do 
need  this  will  supply  it,  the  change  at  least — with  no  sacri- 
fice of  my  hard-fought-for  financial  independence.  It  was 
the  abysmal  prospect,  as  I  came  in,  of  haring  to  go  straight 
to  my  room — with  no  Siiter  waiting  for  me — and  beat  my 
poor  typewriter  and  poorer  brains  for  some  sparks  of  wit 


220  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

• — when  I  knew  in  advance  there  wasn't  a  spark  left  in  me 
— that  sent  me  to  the  telephone. 

"Now  I'm  packed — in  half  an  hour — and  waiting  for 
Mona.  The  boat  sails  about  three  A.M.;  I  don't  even  know 
her  name :  we  '11  be  on  her  by  midnight.  Poor  Miss  0  'Neill 
is  flabbergasted — and  so  I'm  afraid  will  you  be,  and  Phil 
and  Jimmy.  I  know  it  isn't  kind  of  me  simply  to  vanish 
like  this ;  but  try  to  feel  that  I  don 't  mean  to  be  unkind. 
Not  even  to  Togo,  though  my  treachery  to  him  is  villain- 
ous. It  will  be  a  black  mark  against  me  in  Peter's  book 
forever.  But  I  can 't  take  him,  Ambo ;  I  just  can 't.  Please, 
please — will  you?  You  see,  dear,  I  can't  help  being  a 
nuisance  to  you  always,  after  all.  And  I  can't  even  prom- 
ise you  Togo  will  learn  to  love  you,  any  more  than  Tumps 
• — though  I  hope  he  may.  He'll  grieve  himself  thin  at 
first.  He  knows  something's  in  the  air  and  he's  grieving 

beside  me  now.    His  eyes If  Mona  doesn  't  come  soon, 

I  may  collapse  at  his  paws  and  promise  him  to  stay. 

"Mona  talks  of  a  year  over  there,  from  darkest  Russia 
to  lightest  France ;  possibly  two.  Her  plans  are  character- 
istically indefinite.  She  knows  heaps  of  people  all  over, 
of  course.  I'll  write  often.  Please  tell  Hadow  and  Mr. 
Sampson  I'm  a  physical  wreck — or  mental,  if  it  sounds 
more  convincing.  I'm  neither;  but  I'm  tired — tired — 
tired. 

"If  you  can  possibly  help  Phil  and  Jimmy  to  under- 
stand  

"Here's  Mona  now.     Good-by,  dear. 

"Your  ashamed,  utterly  grateful 

"  SUSAN. 

"P.  S.    I'm  wearing  your  furs.'* 


THE  SIXTH  CHAPTER 


SO  Togo  and  I  went  home.  My  misery  craving  com- 
pany,  I  rode  with  him  all  the  way  up  in  the  baggage- 
car,  on  the  self-deceptive  theory  that  he  needed  an  ever- 
present  friend.  It  is  true,  however,  that  he  did;  and  it 
gratified  me  and  a  little  cheered  me  that  he  seemed  really 
to  appreciate  my  attentions.  I  sat  on  a  trunk,  lighting 
each  cigarette  from  the  end  of  the  last,  and  he  sat  at  my 
feet,  leaned  wearily  against  the  calf  of  my  right  leg  and 
permitted  me  to  fondle  his  ears.  .  .  . 

n 

"Spring,  the  sweet  spring!"  Then  birds  do  sing,  hey- 
ding-a-ding — and  so  on.  .  .  .  Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 
.'.  .  Jimmy,  Phil  and  I  saw  little  of  each  other  those  days. 
Jimmy  clouded  his  sunny  brow  and  started  in  working 
overtime.  Phil  plunged  headlong  into  what  was  to  have 
proved  his  philosophical  magnum  opus — "The  Pluralistic 
Fallacy;  a  Critical  Study  of  Pragmatism."  I  also  plunged 
headlong  into  a  series  of  interpretative  essays  for  Heywood 
Sampson's  forthcoming  review.  My  first  essay  was  to  be 
on  Tolstoy ;  my  second,  on  Nietzsche ;  my  third,  on  Anatole 
France ;  my  fourth,  on  Samuel  Butler  and  Bernard  Shaw ; 
my  fifth,  on  Thomas  Hardy;  and  my  sixth  and  last,  on 
Walt  Whitman.  From  the  works  of  these  writers  it  was 
my  purpose  to  illustrate  and  clarify  for  the  semicultured 
the  more  significant  intellectual  and  spiritual  tendencies 
of  our  enlightened  and  humane  civilization.  It  is  charac- 
teristic that  I  supposed  myself  well  equipped  for  this  task. 

221 


222  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

But  I  never  got  beyond  my  detached,  urbane  appreciation 
of  Nietzsche;  just  as  I  had  concluded  it — our  enlightened 
and  humane  civilization  suddenly  blew  to  atoms  with  a 
cUche-shattermg  report  and  a  vile  stench  as  of  too-long- 
imprisoned  gas.  .  .  . 

m 

During  those  first  months  of  Susan's  absence,  which  for 
more  than  four  years  were  to  prove  the  last  months  of 
almost  world-wide  and  wholly  world-deceptive  peace,  sev- 
eral things  occurred  of  more  or  less  importance  to  the  pres- 
ent history.  They  marked,  for  one  thing,  the  auspicious 
sprouting  and  rapid  initial  growth  of  Susan's  literary 
reputation.  Her  poems  appeared  little  more  than  a  month 
after  she  had  left  us,  a  well-printed  volume  of  less  than 
a  hundred  pages,  in  a  sober  green  cover.  I  had  taken  a 
lonely  sort  of  joy  in  reading  and  rereading  the  proof ;  and 
if  even  a  split  letter  escaped  me,  it  has  not  yet  been  brought 
to  my  attention.  These  poems  were  issued  under  a  quiet 
title  and  an  unobtrusive  pen-name,  slipping  into  the 
market-place  without  any  preliminary  puffing,  and  I  feared 
they  were  of  too  fine  a  texture  to  attract  the  notice  that  I 
felt  they  deserved.  But  in  some  respects,  at  least,  Susan 
was  born  under  a  lucky  star.  An  unforeseen  combination 
of  events  suddenly  focused  public  attention — just  long 
enough  to  send  it  into  a  third  edition — upon  this  incon- 
spicuous little  book. 

Concurrently  with  its  publication,  The  Puppet  Booth 
opened  its  doors — its  door,  rather — on  Macdougal  Street; 
an  artistic  venture  quite  as  marked,  you  would  say,  for 
early  oblivion  as  Susan's  own.  The  cocoon  of  The^Puppet 
Booth  was  a  small  stable  where  a  few  Italian  venders  of 
fruit  and  vegetables  had  kept  their  scarecrow  horses  and 
shabby  carts  and  handcarts.  From  this  drab  cocoon  issued 
a  mailed  and  militant  dragon-fly;  vivid,  flashing,  erratic; 
both  ugly  and  beautiful — and  wholly  alive!  For  ther« 
were  in  Greenwich  Village — as  there  are,  it  would  seem, 
in  all  lesser  villages,  from  Florida  to  Oregon — certain 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  223 

mourners  over  and  enthusiasts  for  the  art  called  Drama, 
which  they  believed  to  be  virtually  extinct.  Shows,  it  is 
true,  hundreds  of  them,  were  each  season  produced  on 
Broadway,  and  some  of  these  delighted  hosts  of  the  afflu- 
ent, sentimental,  and  child-like  American  bourgeoisie.  For- 
tunate managers,  playsmiths  and  actors,  endowed  with 
sympathy  for  the  crude  tastes  of  this  bourgeoisie,  a  sym- 
pathy partly  instinctive  and  partly  developed  by  commer- 
cial acumen,  waxed  fat  with  a  prosperity  for  which  the 
Village  could  not  wearily  enough  express  its  contempt 

None  of  these  creatures,  said  the  Village — no,  not  one — 
was  a  genuine  artist !  The  Theater,  they  affirmed,  had  been 
raped  by  the  Philistines  and  prostituted  to  sophomoric 
merrymakers  by  cynical  greed.  The  Theater!  Why,  it 
should  be  a  temple,  inviolably  dedicated  to  its  peculiar 
god.  Since  the  death  of  religion,  it  was  perhaps  the  one 
temple  worthy  of  pious  preservation.  Only  in  a  Theater, 
sincerely  consecrated  to  the  great  god,  Art,  could  the  en- 
lightened, the  sophisticated,  the  free — unite  to  worship. 
There  only,  they  implied,  could  something  adumbrating  a 
sacred  ritual  and  a  spiritual  consolation  be  preserved. 

Luckily  for  Susan,  and  indeed  for  us  all — for  we  have 
all  been  gainers  from  the  spontaneous  generation  of  V  little 
theaters"  all  over  America,  a  phenomenon  at  its  height  just 
previous  to  the  war — one  village  enthusiast,  Isidore  Stalin- 
ski — by  vocation  an  accompanist,  by  avocation  a  vorticist, 
by  race  and  nature  a  publicist — had  succeeded  in  mildly 
infecting  Mona  Leslie — who  took  everything  in  the  air, 
though  nothing  severely — with  offhand  zeal  for  his  cause. 
The  importance  of  her  rather  casual  conversion  lay  in 
the  fact  that  her  purse  strings  were  perpetually  untied. 
Stalinski  well  knew  that  you  cannot  run  even  a  tiny  tem- 
ple for  a  handful  of  worshippers  without  vain  oblations 
on  the  side  to  the  false  gods  of  this  world,  and  these 
imply — oh,  Art's  desire! — a  donor.  And  of  all  possible 
varieties  of  donor,  that  most  to  be  desired  is  the  absentee 
donor — the  donor  who  donates  as  God  sends  rain,  unseen. 

At  precisely  the  right  moment  Stalinski  whispered  to 


224  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Mona  Leslie  that  entre  them — though  he  didn't  care  to  be 
quoted — he  preferred  her  interpretation  of  Faure's  Clair 

de  Lune  to  that  of ,  the  particular  diva  he  had  just 

been  accompanying  through  a  long,  rapturously  advertised 
concert  tour ;  and  Mona  Leslie,  about  to  be  off  on  her  Euro- 
pean flight,  became  the  absentee  donor  to  The  Puppet 
Booth. 

>  The  small  stable  was  leased  and  cleansed  and  sufficiently 
reshaped  to  live  up  to  its  anxiously  chosen  name.  Much 
of  the  reshaping  and  all  of  the  decorating  was  done,  after 
business  hours,  by  the  clever  and  pious  hands  of  the  vil- 
lagers. Then  four  one-act  plays  were  selected  from  among 
some  hundreds  poured  forth  by  village  genius  to  its  re- 
habilitated god.  The  clever  and  pious  hands  flew  faster 
than  ever,  busying  themselves  with  scenery  and  costumes 
and  properties  and  color  and  lighting — all  blended  toward 
the  creation  of  a  thoroughly  uncommercial  atmosphere. 
And  the  four  plays  were  staged,  directed,  acted,  and  finally 
attended  by  the  Village.  It  was  a  perfectly  lovely  party 
and  the  pleasantest  of  times  was  had  by  all. 

And  it  only  remains  to  drop  this  tone  of  patronizing 
persiflage  and  admit,  with  humblest  honesty,  that  the  first 
night  at  The  Puppet  Booth  was  that  very  rare  thing,  a  com- 
plete success ;  what  Broadway  calls  a  ' '  knockout. ' '  Within 
a  fortnight  seats  for  The  Puppet  Booth  were  at  a  ruinous 
premium  in  all  the  ticket  agencies  on  or  near  Times  Square. 

I  happened  to  be  there  on  that  ecstatic  opening  night. 
Susan,  in  her  first  letter,  from  Liverpool,  had  enjoined  me 
to  attend  and  report;  Mona  would  be  glad  to  learn  from 
an  unprejudiced  outsider  how  the  affair  went  off.  But 
Susan  did  not  mention  the  fact  that  one  of  the  four  se- 
lected plays  had  been  written  by  herself. 

Jimmy  was  with  me.  Phil,  who  saw  more  of  him  than 
I  did,  thought  he  was  going  stale  from  overwork,  so  I 
had  made  a  point  of  hunting  him  up  and  dragging  him  off 
with  me  for  a  night  in  town.  He  hadn't  wanted  to  go; 
said  frankly,  he  wasn't  in  the  mood.  I'm  convinced  it 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  used  the  word  "mood"  in 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  225 

connection  with  himself  or  anybody  else.  Jimmy  and 
moods  of  any  kind  simply  didn't  belong  together. 

"We  had  a  good  man's  dinner  at  a  good  man's  chop- 
house  that  night,  and,  once  I  got  Jimmy  to  work  on  it, 
his  normal  appetite  revived  and  he  engulfed  oysters  and 
steak  and  a  deep-dish  apple  pie  and  a  mug  or  so  of  ale,  with 
mounting  gusto.  We  talked,  of  course,  of  Susan. 

Jimmy,  inclined  to  a  rosier  view  by  comfortable  reple- 
tion, now  maintained  that  perhaps  after  all  Susan  had  done 
the  natural  and  sensible  thing  in  joining  Miss  Leslie.  He 
emphasized  all  the  obvious  advantages — complete  change  of 
environment,  freedom  from  financial  worry,  and  so  on; 
then  he  paused.  .  .  . 

' '  And  there 's  another  point,  Mr.  Hunt, ' '  he  began  again, 
doubtfully  this  time:  "Prof.  Farmer  and  I  were  talking 
about  it  only  the  other  day.  We  were  wondering  whether 
we  oughtn  't  to  speak  to  you.  But  it 's  not  the  easiest  thing 
to  speak  of — it's  so  sort  of  vague — kind  of  a  feeling  in 
the  air." 

I  knew  at  once  what  he  referred  to,  and  nodded  my  head. 
' '  So  you  and  Phil  have  noticed  it  too ! ' ' 

"Oh,  you're  on  then?  I'm  glad  of  that,  sir.  You've 
never  mentioned  anything,  so  Prof.  Farmer  and  I  couldn't 
be  sure.  But  it's  got  under  our  skins  that  it  might  make 
a  lot  of  trouble  and  something  ought  to  be  done  about  it. 
It's  hard  to  see  what." 

"Very,"  I  agreed.  "Fire  ahead,  Jimmy.  Tell  me  ex- 
actly what  has  come  to  you — to  you,  personally,  I  mean." 

"Well,"  said  Jimmy,  leaning  across  the  table  to  me 
and  lowering  his  voice,  "it  was  all  of  three  weeks  ago. 
I  went  to  a  dance  at  the  Lawn  Club.  I  don't  dance  very 
well,  but  I  figure  a  fellow  ought  to  know  how  if  he  ever  has 
to,  so  I've  slipped  in  a  few  lessons.  I  can  keep  off  my  part- 
ner's feet,  anyway.  Well,  Steve  Putnam  took  me  round 
that  night  and  introduced  me  to  some  girls.  I  guess  if 
they'd  known  my  mother  was  living  in  New  Haven  and 
married  to  a  grocer,  they  wouldn't  have  had  anything  to 
do  with  me.  Maybe  I  ought  to  advertise  the  fact,  but  I 


226  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

don 't — simply  because  I  can 't  stand  for  my  stepfather,  and 
so  mother  won 't  stand  for  me.  Mother  and  I  never  could 
get  on,  though;  and  it's  funny,  too — as  a  general  rule  I 
can  get  on  with  'most  everybody.  I  told  Prof.  Farmer 
the  other  night  there  must  be  something  wrong  with  a 
fellow  who  can 't  get  on  with  his  own  mother — but  he  only 
laughed.  Of  course,  Mr.  Hunt,  I'm  not  exactly  sailing 
under  false  pretenses,  either;  if  any  girl  wanted  to  make 
real  friends  with  me — I'd  tell  her  all  about  myself 
first." 

"Of  course,"  I  murmured. 

"And  the  same  with  men.  Steve,  for  instance.  He 
knows  all  about  me,  and  his  father  has  a  lot  of  money,  but 
he  made  it  in  soap — and  Steve's  from  the  West,  anyway, 
and  don't  care.  Gee,  I'm  wandering — it's  the  ale,  I  guess, 
Mr.  Hunt;  I'm  not  used  to  it.  The  point  is,  Steve  intro- 
duced me  round,  and  I  like  girls  all  right,  but  Susan's 
kind  of  spoiled  me  for  the  way  most  of  them  gabble. 
I  can't  do  that  easy,  quick-talk  very  good  yet;  Steve's 
a  bear  at  it.  "Well — I  sat  out  a  dance  with  one  of  the 
girls,  a  Miss  Simmons;  pretty,  too;  but  she's  only  a  kid. 
It  was  her  idea,  sitting  out  the  dance  in  a  corner — I 
thought  she  didn't  like  the  way  I  handled  myself.  But 
that  wasn't  it.  Mr.  Hunt,  she  wanted  to  pump  me;  went 
right  at  it,  too. 

"  'You  know  Mr.  Hunt  awfully  well,  don't  you?'  she 
asked;  and  after  I'd  said  yes,  and  we'd  sort  of  sparred 
round  a  little,  she  suddenly  got  confidential,  and  a  kind 
of  thrilled  look  came  into  her  eyes,  and  then  she  asked 
me  straight  out:  'Have  you  ever  heard  there  was  some- 
thing— mysterious — about  poor  Mrs.  Hunt's  death?' 

"  'No,'  I  said. 

"  'Haven't  you!'  she  said,  as  much  as  to  tell  me  she 
knew,  all  the  same,  I  must  have.  'Why,  Mr.  Kane,  it's  all 
over  town.  Nobody  knows  anything,  but  it's  terribly  ex- 
citing! Some  people  think  she  committed  suicide,  all  be* 
cause  of  that  queer  Miss  Blake.  .  .  .  She  must  be — you 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  227 

know !  And  now  she's  rim  away  to  Europe !  I  believe  she 
was  just  afraid  to  stay  over  here,  afraid  she  might  be  found 
out  or  arrested — or  something!' 

"That's  the  way  she  went  on,  Mr.  Hunt;  and,  well — 
naturally,  I  pooh-poohed  it  and  steered  her  off,  and  then 
she  lost  interest  in  me  right  away.  But  she's  right,  Mr. 
Hunt.  There's  a  lot  of  that  kind  of  whispered  stuff  in 
the  air,  and  I'm  mighty  glad  Susan's  off  for  a  year  or 
two  where  she  can't  run  into  it.  It'll  all  die  out  before 
she's  back  again,  of  course." 

"I  hope  so,"  was  my  reply;  "but  the  eouree  of  these 
rumors  is  very  persistent — and  very  discreet.  They  start 
from  Mrs.  Arthur;  they  must.  But  it's  impossible  to  trace 
them  back  to  her.  Jimmy,  she  means  to  make  New  Haven 
impossible  for  me,  and  I've  an  idea  she's  likely  to  succeed. 
'Already,  three  or  four  old  acquaintances  have — well, 
avoided  me,  and  the  general  atmosphere's  cooling  pretty 
rapidly  toward  zero.  So  far  as  I'm  concerned,  it  doesn't 
much  matter;  but  it  does  matter  for  Susan.  She  may  re- 
turn to  find  her  whole  future  clouded  by  a  settled  impres- 
sion that  in  some  way — indirectly — or  even,  directly — she 
was  responsible  for  my  wife's  sudden  death." 

"It's  a  damned  outrage!"  exclaimed  Jimmy.  "I  don't 
know  Mrs.  Arthur,  but  I'd  like  to  wring  her  neck!" 

"So  would  I,  Jimmy;  and  she  knows  it.  That's  why 
she 's  finding  life  these  days  so  supremely  worth  living. ' ' 

Jimmy  pondered  this.  ' '  Gee,  I  hate  to  think  that  badly 
of  any  woman,"  he  finally  achieved ;  "but  I  guess  it  doesn't 
do  to  be  a  fool  and  think  they're  all  angels — like  Susan. 
Mother's  not." 

"No,  Jimmy,  it  doesn't  do,"  I  responded.  "Still,  the 
price  for  that  kind  of  wisdom  is  always  much  higher  than 
it's  worth." 

"Women,"  began  Jimmy But  his  aphorism  eome- 

hott  escaped  him ;  he  decided  to  light  a  cigarette  instead.  . .  . 

And  on  this  wave  of  cynicism  I  floated  him  off  with  me 
to  The  Puppet  Booth. 


228  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

IV 

From  the  point  of  view  of  eccentric  effectiveness  and 
reclame  wonders  had  been  wrought  with  the  small,  ancient, 
brick  stable  on  Macdougal  Street;  but  very  little  had  been 
or  could  be  done  for  the  comfort  of  its  guests.  The  flat 
exterior  wall  had  been  stuccoed  and  brilliantly  frescoed 
to  suggest  the  entrance  to  some  probably  questionable 
side-show  at  a  French  village  fair;  and  a  gay  clown  with 
a  drum,  an  adept  at  amusing  local  patter,  had  been  sta- 
tioned before  the  door  to  emphasize  the  funanibulcsque 
illusion.  Within,  this  atmosphere — as  of  something  gaudy 
and  transitory,  the  mere  lath-and-canvas  pitch  of  a  vaga- 
bond banquiste — had  been  cleverly  carried  out.  The 
cramped  little  theater  itself  struck  one  as  mere  scenery, 
which  was  precisely  the  intention.  There  was  clean  saw- 
dust on  the  floor,  and  the  spectators — one  hundred  of 
them  suffocatingly  filled  the  hall — were  provided  only  with 
wooden  benches,  painted  a  vivid  Paris  green.  These 
benches  had  been  thoughtfully  selected,  however,  and  were 
less  excruciating  to  sit  on  than  you  would  suppose.  There 
was,  naturally,  no  balcony;  a  false  pitch-roof  had  been 
constructed  of  rough  stable  beams,  from  which  hung  ban- 
nerets in  a  crying,  carefully  studied  dissonance  of  strong 
color,  worthy  of  the  barbaric  Bakst.  The  proscenium  arch 
was  necessarily  a  toylike  affair,  copied,  you  would  say, 
from  the  Guinol  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens ;  and  the  curtain, 
for  a  final  touch,  looked  authentic — had  almost  certainly 
been  acquired,  at  some  expenditure  of  thought  and  trouble, 
from  a  traveling  Elks'  Carnival.  There  was  even  a  false 
set  of  footlights  to  complete  the  masquerade ;  a  row  of  oil 
lamps  with  tin  reflectors.  It  was  all  very  restless  and 
amusing — and  extravagantly  make-believe.  .  .  . 

Jimmy  and  I  arrived  just  in  time  to  squeeze  down  the 
single  narrow  side-aisle  and  into  our  places  in  the  fourth 
row.  We  had  no  opportunity  to  glance  about  us  or  con- 
sult our  broad-sheet  programs,  none  to  acquire  the  proper 
mood  of  tense  expectancy  we  later  succumbed  to,  before  the 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  229 

lights  were  lowered  and  the  curtain  was  rolled  up  in  the 
true  antique  style.  ' '  Gee ! ' '  muttered  Jimmy,  on  my  left, 
with  involuntary  dislike.  "Ah!"  breathed  a  maiden,  on 
my  right,  with  entirely  voluntary  rapture.  Someone  in  the 
front  row  giggled,  probably  a  cub  reporter  doing  duty  that 
evening  as  a  dramatic  critic ;  but  he  was  silenced  by  a  sharp 
hiss  from  the  rear. 

The  cause  for  these  significant  reactions  was  the  mise 
en  scene  of  the  tiny  vacant  stage.  It  consisted  of  three 
dead-black  walls,  a  dead-black  ceiling,  and  a  dead-black 
floor-cloth.  In  the  back  wall  there  was  a  high,  narrow 
crimson  door  with  a  black  knob.  A  tall  straight-legged 
table  and  one  straight  high-backed  chair,  both  lacquered 
in  crimson,  were  the  only  furniture,  except  for  a  slender 
crimson-lacquered  perch,  down  right,  to  which  was  chained 
a  yellow,  green  and  crimson  macaw.  And  through  the 
crimson  door  presently  entered — undulated,  rather — a  per- 
sonable though  poisonous  young  woman  in  a  trailing  robe 
of  vivid  yellow  and  green. 

The  play  that  followed,  happily  a  brief  one,  was  called 
• — as  Jimmy  and  I  learned  from  our  programs  at  its  con- 
clusion— "Polly."  It  consisted  of  a  monologue  delivered 
by  the  poisonous  young  woman  to  the  macaw,  occasionally 
varied  by  ad  lib.  screams  and  chuckles  from  that  evil  white- 
eyed  bird.  From  the  staccato  remarks  of  the  poisonous 
young  woman,  we,  the  audience,  were  to  deduce  the  erratic 
eroticism  of  an  dme  damnee.  It  was  not  particularly  diffi- 
cult to  do  so,  nor  was  it  particularly  entertaining.  As  a 
little  adventure  in  supercynicism,  "Polly,"  in  short,  was 
not  particularly  successful.  It  needed,  and  had  not  been 
able  to  obtain,  the  boulevard  wit  of  a  Sacha  Guitry  to 
carry  it  off.  But  the  poisonous  young  woman  had  an 
exquisitely  proportioned  figure,  and  her  arms,  bare  to  the 
slight  shoulder-straps,  were  quite  faultless.  Minor  effects 
of  this  kind  have,  even  on  Broadway,  been  known  to  save 
more  than  one  bad  quarter  hour  from  complete  collapse. 
,  .  .  No,  it  was  not  the  author 's  lines  that  carried  us  safely 
through  this  first  fifteen  minutes  of  diluted  Strindberg- 


230  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Schnitzler !  And  the  too  deliberately  bizarre  mise  en  scene, 
though  for  a  moment  it  piqued  curiosity,  had  soon  proved 
wearisome,  and  we  were  glad — at  least,  Jimmy  and  I  were 
— to  have  it  veiled  from  our  eyes. 

The  curtain  rolled  down,  nevertheless,  to  ecstatic  cries 
and  stubbornly  sustained  applause.  Eaised  lights  revealed 
an  excited,  chattering  band  of  the  faithful.  The  poisonous 
young  woman  took  four  curtain  calls  and  would  seemingly, 
from  her  parting  gesture,  have  drawn  us  collectively  to 
her  fine  bosom  with  those  faultless,  unreluctant  arms.  And 
the  maiden  on  my  right  shuddered  forth  to  her  escort, 
"I'm  thrilled,  darling!  Feel  them — feel  my  hands — 
they're  moon-cold!  They  always  are,  you  know,  when  I'm 
thrilled!" 

"You  can't  beat  this  much,  Mr.  Hunt,"  whispered 
Jimmy,  on  my  left.  "It's  bughouse." 

In  a  sense,  it  was ;  in  a  truer  sense,  it  was  not.  A  care- 
ful analysis  of  the  audience  would,  I  was  quickly  convinced, 
have  disclosed  not  merely  a  saving  remnant,  but  a  saving 
majority  of  honest  workmen  in  the  arts — men  and  women 
too  solidly  endowed  with  brains  and  humor  for  any  self- 
conscious  posing  or  public  exhibition  of  temperament. 
The  genuine  freaks  among  us  were  a  scant  handful;  but 
it  is  the  special  talent  and  purpose  of  your  freak  to — in 
Whitman's  phrase — "positively  appear."  Ten  able  freaks 
to  the  hundred  can  turn  any  public  gathering  into  a  side 
show;  and  the  freaks  of  the  Village,  particularly  the 
females  of  the  species,  are  nothing  if  not  able.  Minna 
Freund,  for  example,  who  was  sitting  just  in  front  of 
Jimmy ;  it  would  be  difficult  for  any  assembly  to  obliterate 
Minna  Freund !  She  was,  that  night,  exceptionally  repul- 
sive in  a  sort  of  yellow  silk  wrapper,  with  her  sparrow's 
nest  of  bobbed  Henner  hair,  and  her  long,  bare,  olive-green 
neck,  that  so  obviously  needed  to  be  scrubbed ! 

Having  strung  certain  entirely  unrelated  words  together 
and  called  them  ' '  Portents, ' '  she  had  in  those  days  acquired 
a  minor  notoriety,  and  Susan — impishly  enjoying  my  con- 
sequent embarrassment — had  once  introduced  me  to  her 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  231 

as  an  admirer  of  her  work,  at  an  exhibition  of  Cubist 
sculpture.  Minna  was  standing  at  the  time,  I  recalled,  be- 
fore Pannino's  "Study  of  a  Morbid  Complex,"  and  she 
at  once  informed  me  that  the  morbid  complex  in  question 
had  been  studied  from  the  life.  She  had  posed  her  own 
destiny  for  Pannino,  so  she  assured  me,  at  three  separate 
moments  of  psychic  crisis,  and  the  inevitable  result  had 
been  a  masterpiece.  ' '  How  it  writhes ! ' '  she  had  exclaimed : 
but  to  my  uninstructed  eyes  Pannino 's  Study  did  anything 
but  writhe;  it  was  stolidly  passive;  it  looked  precisely  as 
an  ostrich  egg  on  a  pedestal  would  look  if  viewed  in  a 
slightly  convex  mirror.  .  .  .  How  far  away  all  that  stupid 
nonsense  seems ! 

And,  suddenly,  Jimmy  leaped  on  the  bench  beside  me 
as  if  punctured  by  a  pin:  "Oh,  good  Lord,  Mr.  Hunt!" 
he  groaned.  ' '  Look  here ! ' ' 

He  had  thrust  his  program  before  me  and  was  point- 
ing to  the  third  play  of  the  series  with  an  unsteady  finger. 

"It's  the  same  name,"  he  whispered  hoarsely;  "the 
one  she's  used  for  her  book.  Do  you  think " 

"I'll  soon  find  out,"  was  my  answer.  "We  must  know 
what  we're  in  for,  Jimmy!"  And  just  as  the  lights  were 
lowered  for  the  second  play  I  rose,  defying  audible  unpopu- 
larity, and  squeezed  my  way  out  to  the  door.  That  is  why 
I  cannot  describe  for  you  the  second  play,  a  harsh  little 
tragedy  of  the  sweatshops — "Horrible,"  Jimmy  affirmed, 
"but  it  kind  of  got  me!" — written  by  an  impecunious 
young  man  with  expensive  tastes,  who  has  since  won  the 
means  of  gratifying  them  along  Broadway  by  concocting 
for  that  golden  glade  his  innocently  naughty  librettos — 
"Tra-la,  Therese!"  and  "Oh,  Mercy,  Modestine!" 

Having  sought  and  interviewed  Stalinski — I  found  him 
huddled  in  the  tiny  box-office,  perspiring  unpleasantly  from 
nervousness  and  many  soaring  emotions — I  was  back  in  my 
seat,  more  unpopular  than  ever,  in  good  time  for  Susan's 
— it  was  unquestionably  Susan's — play. 

But  most  of  you  have  read,  or  have  seen,  or  have  read 
about,  Susan's  play.  .  .  . 


'232  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

It  was  the  sensation  of  the  evening,  of  many  subsequent 
evenings;  and  I  have  often  wondered  precisely  why — for 
there  is  in  it  nothing  sensational.  Its  atmosphere  is  deli- 
cately fantastic;  remote,  you  would  say,  from  the  sympa- 
thies of  a  matter-of-fact  world,  particularly  as  its  fantasy 
is  not  the  highly  sentimentalized  make-believe  of  some 
popular  fairy  tale.  This  fantasy  of  Susan's  is  ironic  and 
grave ;  simple  in  movement,  too — just  a  few  subtle  modula- 
tions on  a  single  poignant  theme.  And  I  ask  myself 
wherein  lies  its  throat-tightening  quality,  its  irresistible 
appeal?  And  I  find  but  one  answer;  an  answer  which  I 
had  always  supposed,  in  my  long  intellectual  snobbery,  an 
undeserved  compliment  to  the  human  race;  a  compliment 
no  critic,  who  was  not  either  dishonest  or  a  fool,  could 
pay  mankind. 

But  what  other  explanation  can  be  given  for  the  suc- 
cess of  Susan's  play,  both  here  and  in  England,  than  its 
sheer  beauty  f  Beauty  of  substance,  of  mood,  of  form,  of 
quiet,  heart-searching  phrase !  It  is  not  called  ' '  The  Magic 
Circle,"  but  it  might  have  been;  for  its  magic  is  genuine, 
distilled  from  the  depths  of  Nature,  and  it  casts  an  un- 
escapable  spell — on  poets  and  bankers,  on  publicans  and 
prostitutes  and  priests,  on  all  and  sundry,  equally  and 
alike.  It  even  casts  its  spell  on  those  who  act  in  it,  and 
no  truer  triumph  can  come  to  an  author.  I  have  never 
seen  it  really  badly  played.  Susan  has  never  seen  it  played 
at  all. 

On  the  first  wave  of  this  astonishing  triumph,  Susan's 
pen-name  was  swept  into  the  newspapers  and  critical 
journals  of  America  and  England,  and  a  piquant  point 
for  gossip  was  added  by  the  revelation  that  "Dax,"  who 
for  several  months  had  so  wittily  enlivened  the  columns 
of  Whim,  was  one  and  the  same  person.  Moreover,  it  was 
soon  bruited  about  that  the  author  was  a  slip  of  a  girl — 
radiantly  beautiful,  of  course ;  or  why  romance  concerning 
her ! — and  that  there  was  something  mysterious,  even  sinis- 
ter, in  her  history. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  233 

"A  child  of  the  underworld,"  said  one  metropolitan 
journal,  in  its  review  of  her  poems.  Popular  legend  pres- 
ently connected  her,  though  vaguely,  with  the  criminal 
classes.  I  have  heard  an  overdressed  woman  in  a  theater 
lobby  earnestly  assuring  another  that  she  knew  for  a  fact 

that  (Susan)  had  been  born  in  a  brothel — "one  of 

those  houses,  my  dear" — and  brought  up — like  Oliver 
Twist,  though  the  comparison  escaped  her — to  be  a  thief. 

And  so  it  was  that  the  public  eye  lighted  for  a  little 
hour  on  Susan's  shy  poems.  Poetry  was  said  to  be  looking 
up  in  those  days ;  and  influential  critics  in  their  influential, 
uninfluenced  way  suddenly  boomed  these,  saying  mostly 
the  wrong  things  about  them,  but  saying  them  over  and 
over  with  energy  and  persistence.  The  first  edition  van- 
ished overnight;  a  larger  second  edition  was  printed  and 
sold  out  within  a  week  or  two ;  a  still  larger  third  edition 
was  launched  and  disposed  of  more  slowly.  Then  came 
the  war.  . 


If  I  can  say  anything  good  of  the  war,  it  is  this :  Since 
seemingly  it  must  have  come  anyway,  sooner  or  later,  so 
far  as  Susan  is  concerned  it  came  just  in  time.  A  letter 
from  Phil  to  Susan,  received  toward  the  close  of  July, 
1914,  at  the  chateau  of  the  Comtesse  de  Bligny,  near  Brus- 
sels, will  tell  you  why. 

"Dear  Susan:  If  the  two  or  three  notes  I've  sent  you 
previously  have  been  brief  and  dull,  I  knew  you  would 
make  the  inevitable  allowances  and  forgive  me.  In  tha 
first  place,  God  didn't  create  me  to  scintillate,  as  you've 
long  had  reason  to  know;  and  since  you  left  us  I've  been 
buried  in  a  Sahara  of  work,  living  so  retired  a  life  in  my 
desert  that  little  news  comes  my  way.  But  Jimmy  breaks 
in  on  me,  always  welcomely,  with  an  occasional  bulletin, 
and  last  night  Hunt  came  over  and  we  had  a  long  evening 
together.  He's  worried,  Susan,  not  without  great  cause,  I 


234  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

fear ;  he  looks  tired  and  ill ;  and  after  mulling  things  over, 
with  my  usual  plodding  caution — I've  thought  best  to  ex- 
plain the  situation  to  you. 

"It  can  be  put  in  very  few  words.  The  deserved  suc- 
cess of  your  play  and  the  poems,  following  a  natural  law 
that  one  too  helplessly  wishes  otherwise,  has  led  to  a  crisis 
in  the  gossip — malicious  in  origin,  certainly — which  has 
fastened  upon  you  and  Hunt;  and  this  gossip  lately  has 
taken  a  more  sinister  turn.  More  and  more  openly  it  is 
being  said  that  the  circumstances  surrounding  Mrs.  Hunt's 
death  ought  to  be  probed — 'probed'  is  just  now  the  popular 
word  in  this  connection.  The  feeling  is  widespread  that 
you  were  in  some  way  responsible  for  it. 

"I  must  use  brutal  phrases  to  lay  the  truth  before  you. 
You  are  not,  seemingly,  suspected  of  murder.  You  are  sus- 
pected of  having  killed  Mrs.  Hunt  during  a  sudden  access 
of  mental  irresponsibility.  It  is  whispered  that  Hunt,  im- 
properly, in  some  devious  way,  got  the  matter  hushed  up 
and  the  affair  reported  as  an  accident.  As  a  result  of  these 
absurd  and  terrible  rumors,  Hunt  finds  himself  a  pariah — 
many  of  his  oldest  acquaintances  no  longer  recognize  him 
when  they  meet.  It  is  a  thoroughly  distressing  situation, 
and  it's  difficult  to  see  how  the  mad  injustice  of  it  can  be 
easily  righted. 

"The  danger  is,  of  course,  that  some  misguided  person 
will  get  the  whole  matter  into  the  newspapers;  it  is  really 
a  miracle  that  it  has  not  already  been  seized  on  by  some 
yellow  sheet,  the  opportunity  for  a  sensational  story  is  so 
obviously  ripe.  Happily" — oh,  Phil!  oh,  philosopher! — 
"the  present  curious  tension  in  European  politics  is  for 
the  moment  turning  journalistic  eyes  far  from  home.  But 
as  all  such  diplomatic  flurries  do,  this  one  will  pass,  leav- 
ing the  flatness  of  the  silly  season  upon  us.  This  is  what 
Hunt  most  fears ;  and  when  you  next  see  him  you  will  find 
him  grayer  and  older  because  of  this  anxiety. 

"He  dreads,  for  you,  a  sudden  journalistic  demand  for 
a  public  investigation,  and  feels — though  in  this  I  can 
hardly  agree  with  him — that  such  &  demand  could  end  only 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  235 

in  a  public  trial,  in  view  of  the  peculiar  nature  of  all  the 
circumstances  involved — a  veritable  cause  celebre. 

"How  shocking  all  this  must  be  to  you.  The  sense  of 
the  mental  anguish  I'm  causing  you  is  a  horror  to  me. 
Nothing  could  have  induced  me  to  write  in  this  way  but 
the  compulsion  of  my  love  for  Hunt  and  you.  It  seems 
to  me  imperative  that  your  names  should  be  publicly 
cleared,  in  advance  of  any  public  outcry. 

"So  I  urge  you,  Susan — fully  conscious  of  my  personal 
responsibility  in  doing  so — to  return  at  once  and  to  join 
with  Hunt  and  your  true  friends  in  quashing  finally  and 
fully  these  damnable  lies.  It  is  my  strong  conviction  that 
this  is  your  duty  to  yourself,  to  Hunt,  and  to  us  all. 
If  you  and  Hunt,  together  or  separately,  make  a  public 
statement,  in  view  of  the  rumors  now  current,  and  your- 
selves demand  the  fullest  public  investigation  of  the  facts, 
there  can  be  but  one  issue.  Your  good  names  will  be 
cleared;  the  truth  will  prevail.  Dreadful  as  this  prospect 
must  be  for  you  both,  it  now  seems  to  me — and  let  me 
add,  to  Jimmy — the  one  wise  course  for  you  to  take.  But 
only  you,  if  you  agree  with  me,  can  persuade  Hunt  to 
such  a  course.  ..." 

It  is  unnecessary  to  quote  the  remaining  paragraphs  of 
Phil's  so  characteristic  letter. 

No  doubt  Susan  would  have  returned  immediately  if  she 
could,  but,  less  than  a  week  after  the  receipt  of  Phil's 
letter,  the  diplomatic  flurry  in  Europe  had  taken  a  German 
army  through  Luxemburg  and  into  Belgium,  and  within 
less  than  two  weeks  Susan  and  Mona  Leslie  and  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Bligny  were  in  uniform,  working  a  little  less  than 
twenty-four  hours  a  day  with  the  Belgian  Red  Cross.  .  .  . 

It  is  no  purpose  of  mine  to  attempt  any  description  of 
Susan's  war  experience  or  service.  Those  first  corroding 
weeks  and  months  of  the  war  have  left  ineffaceable  scars 
on  the  consciousness  of  the  present  generation.  I  was  not 
a  part  of  them,  and  can  add  nothing  to  them  by  talking 


236  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

about  them  at  second  hand.  It  might,  however,  repay  you 
to  read — if  you  have  not  already  done  so — a  small  anony- 
mous volume  which  has  passed  through  some  twenty  or 
thirty  editions,  entitled  Stupidity  Triumphant,  and  con- 
taining the  brief,  sharply  etched  personal  impressions  of  a 
Ked  Cross  nurse  in  Flanders  during  the  early  days  of 
Belgium's  long  agony.  It  is  now  an  open  secret  that  this 
little  book  was  written  by  Susan ;  and  among  the  countless 
documents  on  frightfulness  this  one,  surely,  by  reason  of  its 
simplicity  and  restraint,  its  entire  absence  of  merely  hys- 
terical outcry,  is  not  the  least  damning  and  not — I  venture 
to  believe — the  least  permanent. 

There  is  one  short  paragraph  in  this  book  of  detached 
pictures,  marginal  notes,  and  condensed  reflections  that 
brought  home  to  me,  personally,  war,  the  veritable  thing 
itself,  as  no  other  written  lines  were  able  to  do — as  noth- 
ing was  able  to  do  until  I  had  seen  the  beast  with  my  own 
eyes.  It  is  not  an  especially  striking  paragraph,  and  just 
why  it  should  have  done  so  I  am  unable  to  say.  Certain 
extracts  from  the  book  have  been  widely  quoted — one  even, 
I  am  told,  was  read  out  in  Parliament  by  Arthur  Hender- 
son— but  I  have  never  seen  this  one  quoted  anywhere;  so 
I  am  rather  at  a  loss  to  explain  its  peculiar  influence  on  me. 
Entirely  individual  reactions  to  the  printed  word  are 
always  a  little  mysterious.  I  know,  for  example,  one 
usually  enlightened  and  catholic  critic  who  stubbornly 
maintains  that  a  very  commonplace  distich  by  Lord  De 
Tabley  is  the  most  magical  moment  in  all  English  verse. 
But  here  is  my  paragraph — or  Susan's — for  what  it  is 
worth : 

' '  This  Pomeranian  prisoner  was  a  blond  boy-giant ;  piti- 
fully shattered;  it  was  necessary  to  remove  his  left  leg  to 
the  knee.  The  operation  was  rapidly  but  skillfully  per- 
formed. He  was  then  placed  on  a  pallet,  close  beside  the 
cot  of  a  wounded  German  officer.  After  coming  out  of  the 
ether  his  fever  mounted  and  he  grew  delirious.  The  Ger- 
man officer  commanded  him  to  be  silent,  He  might  just  as 
well  have  commanded  the  sun  to  stand  still,  and  he  must, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  237 

however  muzzily,  have  known  that.  Yet  he  was  outraged 
by  this  unconscious  act  of  insubordination.  Thrice  he  re- 
peated his  absurd  command — then  raised  himself  with  a 
groan,  leaned  across,  and  struck  the  delirious  boy  in  the 
face  with  a  weakly  clenched  fist.  It  was  not  a  heavy  blow ; 
the  officer's  strength  did  not  equal  his  intention.  'Idiot!' 
I  cried  out ;  and  thrust  him  back  on  his  cot,  half-fainting 
from  the  pain  of  his  futile  effort  at  discipline.  'Idiot'  was, 
after  all,  the  one  appropriate  word.  It  was  constantly,  I 
found,  the  one  appropriate  word.  The  beast  was  a  stupid 
beast." 


THE  LAST  CHAPTER 


PHIL  FAEMER  and  Jimmy  Kane  stayed  on  in  New 
Haven  that  summer  of  1914 ;  Phil  to  be  near  his  pre- 
cious sources  in  the  Yale  library;  Jimmy  to  be  near  his 
new  job.  As  soon  as  his  examinations  were  over  he  had 
gone  to  work  in  a  factory  in  a  very  humble  capacity ;  but 
he  was  not  destined  to  remain  there  long  in  any  capacity, 
nor  was  it  written  in  the  stars  that  he  was  to  complete 
his  education  at  Yale. 

My  own  reasons  for  clinging  to  New  Haven  were  less 
definite.  Sheer  physical  inertia  had  something  to  do  with 
it,  no  doubt;  but  chiefly  I  stayed  because  New  Haven  in 
midsummer  is  a  social  desert;  and  in  those  days  my  most 
urgent  desire  was  to  be  alone.  Apart  from  all  else,  the 
breaking  out  of  almost  world-wide  war  had  drastically,  as 
if  by  an  operation  for  spiritual  cataract,  opened  my  inner 
eye,  no  longer  a  bliss  in  solitude,  to  much  that  was  trivial 
and  self-satisfied  and  ridiculous  in  one  Ambrose  Hunt,  Esq. 
That  Susan  should  be  in  the  smoke  of  that  spreading  hor- 
rjor  brought  it  swiftly  and  vividly  before  me.  I  lived  the 
war  from  the  first. 

For  years,  with  no  feit  discomfort  to  myself,  I  had  been 
a  pacifist.  I  was  a  contributing  member  of  several  peace 
societies,  and  in  one  of  my  slightly  better-known  essays  I 
had  expounded  with  enthusiasm  Tolstoy 's  doctrine — which, 
in  spite  of  much  passionate  argument  to  the  contrary  these 
troublous  times,  was  assuredly  Christ's — of  nonresistance 
to  evil.  I  was,  in  fact,  though  in  a  theoretical,  parlor  sense 
a  proclaimed  Tolstoyan,  a  Christian  anarchist — lacking, 
however,  the  essential  groundwork  for  Tolstoy's  doctrine: 

238 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  239 

faith.  Faith  in  God  as  a  person,  as  a  father,  I  could  not 
confess  to;  but  the  higher  anarchist  vision  of  humanity 
freed  from  all  control  save  that  of  its  own  sweet  reason- 
ableness, of  men  turned  unfailingly  gentle,  mutually  help- 
ful, content  to  live  simply  if  need  be,  but  never  with  un- 
uplifted  hearts — well,  I  could  and  did  confess  publicly  that 
no  other  vision  had  so  strong  an  attraction  for  me! 

I  liked  to  dwell  in  the  idea  of  such  a  world,  to  think  of 
it  as  a  possibility — less  remote,  perhaps,  than  mankind  in 
general  supposed.  Having  lived  through  the  Spanish  "War, 
the  Boer  War,  and  Russia's  war  with  Japan;  and  in  a 
world  constantly  strained  to  the  breaking  point  by  national 
rivalries,  commercial  expansion,  and  competition  for  mar- 
kets ;  by  class  struggles  everywhere  apparent ;  by  the  harsh, 
discordant  energies  of  its  predatory  desires — I,  neverthe- 
less, had  been  able  to  persuade  myself  that  the  darkest 
days  of  our  dust-speck  planet  were  done  with  and  recorded ; 
Earth  and  its  graceless  seed  of  Adam  were  at  last,  to  quote 
Jimmy,  "on  their  way" — well  on  their  way,  I  assured 
myself,  toward  some  inevitable  region  of  abiding  and 
beneficent  light ! 

Pouf!  .  .  .  And  then? 

Stricken  in  solitude,  I  went  down  into  dark  places  and 
fumbled  like  a  starved  beggar  amid  the  detritus  of  my 
dreams.  Dust  and  shadow.  .  .  .  Was  there  anything  real 
there,  anything  worth  the  pain  of  spiritual  salvage?  Had 
I  been,  all  my  life,  merely  one  more  romanticist,  one  more 
sentimental  trifler  in  a  universe  whose  ways  were  not  those 
of  pleasantness,  nor  its  paths  those  of  peace  ?  Surely,  yes ; 
for  my  heart  convicted  me  at  once  of  having  wasted  all  my 
days  hitherto  in  a  fool's  paradise.  The  rough  fabric  of 
human  life  was  not  spun  from  moonshine.  So  much  at 
least  was  certain.  And  nothing  else  was  left  me.  Hurled 
from  my  private,  make-believe  Eden,  I  must  somehow  begin 
anew. 

"Brief  beauty,  and  much  weariness.  .  .  ." 


240  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Susan's  line  haunted  me  throughout  the  first  desperate 
isolation  of  those  hours.  I  saw  no  light.  I  was  broken  in 
spirit.  I  was  afraid. 

Morbidity,  you  will  say.  Why,  yes;  why  not?  To  be 
brainsick  and  heartsick  in  a  cruel  and  unfamiliar  world 
is  to  be  morbid.  I  quite  agree.  Below  the  too-thin  crust 
of  a  dilettante's  culture  lies  always  that  hungry  morass.  A 
world  had  been  shaken ;  the  too-thin  crust  beneath  my  feet 
had  crumbled ;  I  must  slither  now  in  slime,  and  either  sink 
there  finally,  be  swallowed  up  in  that  sucking  blackness, 
or  by  some  miracle  of  effort  win  beyond,  set  my  feet  on  stiff 
granite,  and  so  survive. 

It  is  most  probable  that  I  should  never  have  reached  solid 
ground  unaided.  It  was  Jimmy,  of  all  people,  who 
stretched  forth  a  vigorous,  impatient  hand. 

Shortly  after  the  First  Battle  of  the  Marne  had  dammed 
— we  knew  not  how  precariously,  or  how  completely — the 
deluge  pouring  through  Belgium  and  Luxemburg  and 
Northern  France,  Jimmy  burst  in  on  me  one  evening.  He 
had  just  received  a  brief  letter  from  Susan.  She  was 
stationed  then  at  Furnes;  Mona  Leslie  was  with  her;  but 
their  former  hostess,  the  young  pleasure-loving  Comtesse 
de  Bligny,  was  dead.  The  cause  of  her  death  Susan  did 
not  even  stop  to  explain. 

"Mona,"  she  hurried  on,  "is  magnificent.  Only  a  few 
months  ago  I  pitied  her,  almost  despised  her ;  now  I  could 
kiss  her  feet.  How  life  had  wasted  her !  She  doesn  't  know 
fear  or  fatigue,  and  she  has  just  put  her  entire  fortune  un- 
reservedly at  the  service  of  the  Belgian  Government — to 
found  field  hospitals,  ambulances,  and  so  on.  The  king 
has  decorated  her.  Not  that  she  cares — has  time  to  think 
about  it,  I  mean.  In  a  sense  it  irritated  her;  she  spoke 
of  it  all  to  me  as  an  unnecessary  gesture.  Oh,  Jimmy,  come 
over — we  need  you  here !  Bring  all  America  over  with  you 
— if  you  can !  Setebos  invented  neutrality ;  I  recognize  his 
workmanship!  Bring  Ambo — bring  Phil!  Don't  stop  to 
think  about  it — come!" 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  241 

' '  I  'm  going  of  course, ' '  said  Jimmy.  ' '  So 's  Prof.  Farm- 
er. How  about  you,  sir?" 

"Phil's  going?" 

' '  Sure.    Just  as  soon  as  he  can  arrange  it. ' ' 

"His  book's  finished?" 

"What  the  hell  has  that "  began  Jimmy;  then 

stopped  dead,  blushing.  ' '  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Hunt ;  but  books, 
somehow — just  now — they  don't  seem  so  important  as — 
0*9" 

' ( Not  quite,  Jimmy.  After  all,  the  real  struggle 's  always 
between  ideas,  isn't  it?  We  can't  perfect  the  world  with 
guns  and  ambulances,  Jimmy. ' ' 

"Maybe  not,"  said  Jimmy  dryly. 

"It's  quite  possible,"  I  insisted,  "that  Phil's  book  might 
accomplish  more  for  humanity,  in  the  long  run,  than  any- 
thing he  could  do  at  his  age  in  Flanders. ' ' 

' '  Susan  could  come  home  and  write  plays, ' '  said  Jimmy ; 
"good  ones,  too.  But  she  won't.  You  can  bet  on  that, 
sir." 

"I've  never  believed  in  war,  Jimmy;  never  believed  it 
could  possibly  help  us  onward." 

"Maybe  it  can't,"  interrupted  Jimmy.  "I've  never  be- 
lieved in  cancer,  either;  it's  very  painful  and  kills  a  lot  of 
people.  You'd  better  come  with  us,  sir.  You'll  be  sorry 
you  didn't — if  you  don't." 

"Why?    You  know  my  ideas  on  nonresistance,  Jimmy." 

"Oh,  ideas!"  grunted  Jimmy.  "I  know  you're  a  white 
man,  Mr.  Hunt.  That 's  enough  for  me.  I  'm  not  worrying 
much  about  your  ideas. ' ' 

"But  whatever  we  do,  Jimmy,  there's  an  idea  behind  it; 
there  must  be." 

"Nachur'ly,"  said  Jimmy.  "Those  are  the  only  ones 
that  count!  I  can't  see  you  letting  Susan  risk  her  life  day 
in  an'  out  to  help  people  who  are  being  wronged,  while 
you  sit  over  here  and  worry  about  what's  going  to  happen 
in  a  thousand  years  or  so — after  we're  all  good  and  dead! 
Not  much  I  can 't !  The  point  is,  there 's  the  rotten  mess — 


242  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

and  Susan's  in  it,  trying  to  make  it  better — and  we're  not. 
Prof.  Farmer  got  it  all  in  a  flash !  He'll  be  round  presently 
to  make  plans.  Well — how  about  it,  sir?" 

Granite !    Granite  at  last,  unshakable,  beneath  my  feet ! 

Then,  too,  Susan  was  over  there,  and  Jimmy  and  Phil 
were  going,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  at  her  behest! 
But  I  have  always  hoped,  and  I  do  honestly  believe,  that  it 
was  not  entirely  that. 

No ;  romanticist  or  not,  I  will  not  submit  to  the  assump- 
tion that  of  two  possible  motives  for  any  decently  human 
action,  it  is  always  the  lower  motive  that  turns  the  trick. 
La  Rochefoucauld  to  the  contrary,  self-interest  is  not  the 
inevitable  mainspring  of  man;  though,  sadly  I  admit,  it 
seems  to  be  an  indispensable  cog-wheel  in  his  complicated 
works. . . . 

n 

And  now,  properly  apprehensive  reader — whom,  in  the 
interests  of  objectivity,  which  has  never  interested  me,  I 
should  never  openly  address — are  you  not  unhappy  in  the 
prospect  of  another  little  tour  through  trench  and  hospital, 
of  one  more  harrowing  account  of  how  the  Great  War  made 
a  Great  Man  of  him  at  last? 

Be  comforted!  One  air  raid  I  cannot  spare  you;  but  I 
can  spare  you  much.  To  begin  with,  I  can  spare  you,  or 
all  but  spare  you,  a  month  or  so  over  three  whole  years. 

You  may  think  it  incredible,  but  it  is  merely  true,  that 
I  had  been  in  Europe  for  more  than  three  years — and  I 
had  not  as  yet  seen  Susan.  Phil  had  seen  her,  just  once ; 
Jimmy  had  seen  her  many  times ;  and  I  had  run  into  them 
— singly,  never  together — off  and  on,  here  and  there,  dur- 
ing those  slow-swift  days  of  unremitting  labor.  If  to  labor 
desperately  in  a  heartfelt  cause  be  really  to  pray,  the  ear 
of  Heaven  has  been  besieged !  But,  in  common  humanity, 
there  was  always  more  crying  to  be  done  than  mortal  brains 
or  hands  or  accumulated  wealth  could  compass.  Once 
plunged  into  that  glorious  losing  struggle  against  the  ap- 
palling hosts  of  Misery,  one  could  only  fight  grimly  on — on 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  248 

—on — to  the  last  hoarded  ounce  of  strength  and  deter- 
mination. 

But  the  odds  were  hopeless,  fantastic!  Those  Titan 
forces  of  human  suffering  and  degradation,  so  half-wittedly 
let  loose  throughout  Europe,  grew  ever  vaster,  more  terri- 
ble in  maleficent  power.  They  have  ravaged  the  world; 
they  have  ravaged  the  soul.  An  armistice  has  been  signed, 
a  peace  treaty  is  being  drafted,  a  League  of  Nations  is 
being  formed — or  deformed — but  those  Titan  forces  still 
mock  our  poor  efforts  with  calamitous  laughter.  They  are 
still  in  fiercely,  stubbornly  disputed,  but  unquestionable 
possession  of  the  field — insolent  conquerors  to  this  hour. 
The  real  war,  the  essential  war,  the  war  against  the  un- 
consciously self-willed  annihilation  of  earth's  tragic  egoist, 
Man,  has  barely  begun.  Its  issue  is  ever  uncertain ;  and  it 
will  not  be  ended  in  our  days.  .  .  . 

Phil  and  Jimmy  had  gone  over  on  the  same  boat,  via 
England,  about  the  middle  of  October,  1914.  At  that  time 
organized  American  relief -work  in  Europe  was  really  non- 
existent, and  in  order  to  obtain  some  freedom  of  movement 
on  the  other  side,  and  a  chance  to  study  out  possible  op- 
portunities for  effective  service,  Phil  had  persuaded  Hey- 
wood  Sampson  to  appoint  him  continental  correspondent 
for  the  new  review ;  and  Jimmy  went  with  him,  ostensibly 
as  his  private  secretary. 

It  was  all  the  merest  excuse  for  obtaining  passports  and 
permission  to  enter  Belgium,  if  that  should  prove  imme- 
diately advisable  after  reaching  London.  It  did  not.  Once 
in  London,  Phil  had  very  soon  found  himself  up  to  the 
eyes  in  work.  Through  Mr.  Page,  the  American  Ambassa- 
dor— so  lately  dead — he  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Herbert  C. 
Hoover,  and  after  a  scant  twenty  minutes  of  conversation 
was  seized  by  Mr.  Hoover  and  plunged,  with  barely  a  gasp 
for  breath,  into  that  boiling  sea  of  troubles — the  organiza- 
tion of  the  Commission  for  Relief  in  Belgium.  It  does  not 
take  Mr.  Hoover  very  long  to  size  up  the  worth  and  sta- 
bility of  any  man ;  but  in  Phil  he  had  found — and  he  knew 
he  had  found — a  peculiar  treasure.  Phil's  unfailing  pa- 


244  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

tience,  his  thoroughness  and  courtesy,  quickly  endeared  him 
to  all  his  colleagues  and  did  much  to  make  possible  the 
successful  launching  of  the  vastest  and  most  difficult  proj- 
ect for  relief  ever  undertaken  by  mortal  men.  Thus,  almost 
overnight,  Jimmy's  private  secretaryship  became  anything 
but  a  sinecure.  For  nearly  three  months  their  labors  held 
them  in  London;  then  they  were  sent — not  unadventur- 
ously — to  Brussels;  there  to  arrange  certain  details  of  dis- 
tribution with  Mr.  Whitlock,  the  American  Minister,  and 
with  the  directors  of  the  Belgian  Comite  National. 

But  from  Brussels  their  paths  presently  diverged. 
Jimmy,  craving  activity,  threw  himself  into  the  actual  work 
of  food  distribution  in  the  stricken  eastern  districts ;  while 
Phil  passed  gravely  on  to  Herculean  labors  at  the  shipping 
station  of  the  "C.  K.  B. "  in  Rotterdam.  He  remained  in 
^Rotterdam  for  upward  of  a  year.  Susan,  meanwhile,  had 
been  driven  with  the  Belgian  Army  from  Furnes,  and  was 
now  attached  to  the  operating-room  of  a  small  field  or 
receiving-hospital,  which  squatted  amphibiously  in  a  water- 
logged fragment  of  village  not  far  from  the  Yser  and  the 
flooded  German  lines.  It  was  a  post  of  danger,  constantly 
under  fire ;  and  she  was  the  one  woman  who  clung  to  it — 
who  insisted  upon  being  permitted  to  cling  to  it,  and  car- 
ried her  point;  and,  under  conditions  fit  neither  for  man 
nor  beast,  unflinchingly  carried  on.  Mona  Leslie  was  no 
longer  beside  her.  She  had  retired  to  Dunkirk  to  aid  in 
the  organization  of  relief  for  ever-increasing  hordes  of 
civilian  refugees. 

And  where,  meanwhile,  was  one  Ambrose  Hunt,  some- 
time dilettante  at  large  ? 

It  had  proved  impossible  for  me  to  sail  with  Phil  and 
Jimmy.  Just  as  the  preliminary  arrangements  were  being 
made,  Aunt  Belle  was  stricken  down  by  apoplexy,  while 
walking  among  the  roses  of  her  famous  Spanish  gardens  in 
Santa  Barbara,  and  so  died,  characteristically  intestate, 
and,  to  my  astonishment,  I  found  that  I  had  become  the 
sole  inheritor  of  her  estate;  all  of  "Hyena  Parker's" 
tainted  millions  had  suddenly  poured  their  burdensome 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  245 

tide  of  responsibilities — needlessly  and  unwelcomely — upon 
me.  There  was  nothing  for  it.  Out  to  California,  willy- 
nilly,  I  must  go,  and  waste  precious  weeks  there  with 
lawyers  and  house  agents  and  other  tiresome  human 
necessities. 

The  one  cheering  thought  in  all  this  annoying  pother 
was — and  it  was  a  thought  that  grew  rapidly  in  significance 
to  me  as  I  journeyed  westward — that  fate  had  now  made 
it  possible  for  me  to  purify  Hyena  Parker's  millions  by 
putting  them  to  work  for  mankind. — "Well,  they  have  since 
done  their  part,  to  the  last  dollar;  they  have  spent  thenf- 
selves  in  the  losing  battle  against  Misery,  and  are  no  more. 
Nothing  became  their  lives  like  the  ending  of  them.  But 
for  all  that,  the  world,  you  see,  is  as  it  is — and  the  battle 
goes  on. 

Phil  kept  in  touch  with  me  from  the  other  side,  in  spite 
of  his  difficulties — as  did  Jimmy  and  Susan — and  he  had 
prepared  the  way  for  me  when  at  length  I  could  free  my- 
self and  sail.  I  was  instructed  to  go  to  Paris,  direct,  and 
fulfill  certain  duties  there  in  connection  with  the  ever- 
increasing  burdens  and  exasperations  of  the  "C.  R.  B." 
I  did  so.  Six  months  later  my  activities  were  transferred 
to  Berne;  and — not  to  trace  in  detail  the  evolution  of  my 
career,  such  as  it  was;  for  though  useful,  I  hope,  it  was 
never,  like  Phil's,  exceptionally  brilliant — I  had  become, 
about  the  period  of  America's  entry  into  the  war,  a  modest 
captain  in  the  Red  Cross,  stationed  at  Evian,  in  connection 
with  the  endless,  heartbreaking  task  of  repatriating 
refugees  from  the  invaded  districts.  And  there  my  job 
rooted  me  until  January  of  that  dark  winter  of  our  un- 
speakable depression,  1918. 

With  the  beginning  of  America's  entry  into  the  war  Phil 
had  gone  to  Petrograd  for  the  American  Red  Cross,  his 
commission  being  to  save  the  lives  of  as  many  Russian 
babies  as  possible  by  the  distribution  of  canned  milk.  Then, 
one  evening — early  in  September,  1917,  it  must  have  been 
— he  started  alone  for  Moscow,  to  lay  certain  wider  plans 
for  disinterested  relief-work  before  the  sinister,  the  almost 


246  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

mythical  Lenine.  That  is  the  last  that  has  ever  been  seen 
of  him,  and  no  word  has  ever  come  forth  directly  from 
him  out  of  the  chaos  men  still  call  Russia.  The  Red  Cross 
and  the  American  and  French  Governments  have  done 
their  utmost  to  discover  his  whereabouts,  without  avail. 
There  are  reasons  for  believing  he  is  not  dead,  nor  even 
a  prisoner.  The  dictators  of  the  soviet  autocracy  have 
been  unable  to  find  a  trace  of  him,  so  they  affirm ;  and  there 
are  reasons  also  for  believing  that  this  is  true. 

As  for  Jimmy,  you  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that 
Jimmy  had  not  long  been  content  with  relief-work  of  any 
kind.  He  was  young ;  and  he  had  seen  things — there,  in  the 
eastern  districts.  By  midsummer  of  1915  he  had  resigned 
from  the  "C.  R.  B.,"  had  made  a  difficult  way  to  Paris, 
via  Holland  and  England,  had  enlisted  in  the  Foreign 
Legion,  and  had  succeeded  in  getting  himself  transferred 
to  the  French  Flying  Corps.  Thus,  months  before  we  had 
officially  abandoned  our  absurd  neutrality,  he  was  flying 
over  the  lines — bless  him !  If  Jimmy  never  became  a  world- 
famous  ace,  well — there  was  a  reason  for  that,  too ;  the  best 
of  reasons.  He  was  never  assigned  to  a  combat  squadron, 
for  no  one  brought  home  such  photographs  as  Jimmy ;  taken 
tranquilly,  methodically,  at  no  great  elevation,  and  often 
far  back  of  the  German  lines.  His  quiet  daring  was  the 
admiration  of  his  comrades;  anti-aircraft  batteries  had  no 
terrors  for  him;  his  luck  was  proverbial,  and  he  grew  to 
trust  it  implicitly,  seeming  to  bear  a  charmed  life. 

But  Susan's  luck  had  failed  her,  at  last.  On  Thanks- 
giving Day  of  1917  she  was  wounded  in  the  left  thigh  by 
a  fragment  of  shrapnel,  a  painful  wound  whose  effects 
were  permanent.  She  will  always  walk  slowly,  with  a  slight 
limp,  hereafter.  Mona  Leslie  got  her  down  as  far  as  Paris 
by  January  20,  1918,  meaning  to  take  her  on  to  Mentone, 
where  she  had  rented  a  small  villa  for  three  months  of  long- 
overdue  rest  and  recuperation  for  them  both.  But  on 
reaching  Paris,  Susan  collapsed ;  the  accumulated  strain  of 
the  past  years  struck  her  down.  She  was  taken  to  the 
comfortable  little  Red  Cross  hospital  for  civilians  at  Neuilly; 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  247 

and  put  to  bed.  A  week  of  dangerous  exhaustion  and  per- 
sistent insomnia  followed. 

I  knew  nothing  of  it  directly,  at  the  moment.  I  knew 
only  that  on  a  certain  day  Miss  Leslie  had  planned  to 
start  with  Susan  from  Dunkirk  for  Mentone ;  I  was  waiting 
eagerly  for  word  of  their  safe  arrival  in  that  haven  of  rest 
and  beauty ;  and  I  was  scheming  like  a  junior  clerk  for  my 
first  vacation,  for  two  weeks  off,  perhaps  even  three,  that 
I  might  run  down  to  them  there.  But  no  word  came. 
Throughout  that  first  week  in  Paris,  Miss  Leslie  in  her 
hourly  anxiety  neglected  to  drop  me  a  line. 

And  then  one  night,  as  I  sat  vacantly  on  the  edge  of  my 
bed  in  my  hotel  room  at  Evian,  almost  too  weary  to  begin 
the  tedious  sequence  of  undressing  and  tumbling  into  it, 
came  the  second  of  my  psychic  reels,  my  peculiar  visions; 
briefer,  this  one,  than  my  first ;  but  no  less  authentic  in  im- 
pression, and  no  less  clear. 

m 

I  saw,  this  time,  the  interior  of  a  small  white  room, 
almost  bare  of  furniture,  evidently  a  private  room  in  some 
thoroughly  appointed  modern  hospital.  The  patient  be- 
neath the  white  coverlet  of  the  single  white-enamelled  iron 
bed  was  Susan — or  the  wraith  of  Susan,  so  wasted  was  she, 
so  still.  My  breath  stopped:  I  thought  it  had  been  given 
me  to  see  her  at  the  moment  of  death;  or  already  dead. 
Then  the  door  of  the  small  white  room  opened,  and  Jimmy 
—in  his  smart  horizon-blue  uniform  with  its  coveted 
shoulder  loop,  the  green-and-red  fouragere  that  bespoke 
the  bravery  of  his  entire  esquadrille — came  in,  treading- 
carefully  on  the  balls  of  his  feet.  As  he  approached  the 
bedside  Susan  opened  her  eyes — great  shadows,  gleamlesa 
soot-smudges  in  her  pitifully  haggard  face.  It  seemed  that 
she  was  too  weak  even  to  greet  him  or  smile ;  her  eyes  closed 
again,  and  Jimmy  bent  down  to  her  slowly  and  kissed  her. 
Then  Susan  lifted  her  right  kand  from  the  coverlet — I 
could  feel  the  effort  it  cost  her — and  touched  Jimmy 's  hair. 


248  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

There  was  no  strength  in  her  to  prolong  the  caress.  The 
hand  slipped  from  him  to  her  breast.  .  .  .  And  my  vision 
ended. 

Its  close  found  me  on  my  knees  on  the  tiled  floor  of  my 
bedroom,  as  if  I  too  had  tried  to  go  nearer,  to  bring  myself 
close  to  her  bedside,  perhaps  to  bury  my  face  in  my  hands 
against  the  white  coverlet,  her  shroud ;  to  weep  there.  .  .  . 

I  sprang  up,  wildly  enough  now,  with  a  harsh  shudder, 
the  terrified  gasp  of  a  brute  suddenly  stricken  from 
ambush,  aware  only  of  rooted  claws  and  a  last  crushing 
fury  of  deep-set  fangs. 

Susan  was  dying.  I  knew  not  where.  I  could  not  reach 
her.  But  Jimmy  had  reached  her.  He  had  been  sum- 
moned. He  had  not  been  too  late. 

There  are  moments  of  blind  anguish  not  to  be  reproduced 
for  others.  Chaos  is  everything — and  nothing.  It  cannot 
be  described. 

There  was  nothing  really  useful  I  could  do  that  night, 
not  even  sleep.  In  those  days,  it  was  impossible  to  move 
anywhere  on  the  railroads  of  France  without  the  proper 
passes  and  registrations  of  intention  with  the  military 
authorities  and  the  local  police.  I  could,  of  course,  suffer 
— that  is  always  a  human  possibility — and  I  could  attempt, 
muzzily  enough,  to  think,  to  make  plans.  Where  was  it 
most  likely  that  Susan  would  be?  Was  the  hospital  room 
that  I  had  seen  in  Dunkirk,  or  in  Nice,  or  at  some  point 
between — perhaps  at  Paris?  It  could  hardly,  I  decided, 
be  at  Dunkirk;  that  stricken  city,  whose  inhabitants  were 
forced  to  dive  like  rats  into  burrows  at  any  hour  of  the  day 
or  night.  There  was  nothing  to  suggest  the  atmosphere  of 
Dunkirk  in  that  quiet,  white-enamelled  room.  Nice,  then — 
or  Mentone  ?  Hardly,  I  again  reasoned ;  for  Jimmy  could 
not  easily  have  reached  them  there.  A  day 's  leave ;  a  flight 
from  the  lines,  so  comfortlessly  close  to  Paris — that  was 
always  possible  to  the  air-men,  who  were  in  a  sense  priv- 
ileged characters,  being  for  the  most  part  strung  with  taut 
nerves  that  chafed  and  snapped  under  too  strict  a  dis- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  249 

cipline.     And  in  Paris  there  must  be  many  such  quiet, 
white-enamelled  rooms.    I  decided  for  Paris. 

Then  I  threw  five  or  six  articles  and  a  bar  of  chocolate 
into  my  musette,  a  small  water-proof  pouch  to  sling  over 
the  shoulder — three  years  had  taught  me  at  least  the  need- 
lessness  of  almost  all  Hillhouse  necessities — and  waited  for 
dawn.  It  came,  as  all  dawns  come  at  last — even  in  Janu- 
ary, even  in  France.  And  with  it  came  a  gulp  of  black 
coffee  in  the  little  deserted  cafe  down-stairs — and  a  tele- 
gram. I  dared  not  open  the  telegram.  It  lay  beside  my 
plate  while  I  stained  the  cloth  before  me  and  scalded  my 
throat  and  furred  my  tongue.  It  was  from  Paris.  So  my 
decision  was  justified,  and  now  quite  worthless.  ...  I 
have  no  memory  of  the  interval ;  but  I  had  got  with  it  some- 
how back  to  my  room — that  accursed  blue  envelope! 
Well 

"Susan  at  Red  Cross  hospital  for  civilians,  Neuilly.  All 
in,  but  no  cause  for  real  worry.  Is  sleeping  now  for  first 
time  in  nearly  a  week.  I  must  leave  by  afternoon.  Come 
up  to  her  if  you  possibly  can.  She  needs  you. 

"JIMMY." 

Four  hours  later  all  my  exasperatingly  complicated 
arrangements  for  a  two-weeks'  absence  were  made — the 
requisite  motions  had  been  the  purest  somnambulism — and 
by  the  ample  margin  of  fifty  seconds  I  had  caught  an 
express — to  do  it  that  courtesy — moving  with  dignity,  at 
decent  intervals,  toward  all  that  I  lived  by  and  despaired 
of  and  held  inviolably  dear.  But  the  irony  of  Jimmy's 
last  three  words  v/ciit  always  with  me,  a  monotonous  ache 
blurring  every  impulse  toward  hope  and  joy.  Susan  was 
not  dead,  was  not  dying!  "No  cause  for  real  worry." 
Jimmy  would  not  have  said  that  if  he  had  feared  the  worst. 
It  was  not  his  way  to  shuffle  with  facts ;  he  was  by  nature 
direct  and  sincere.  No ;  Susan  would  recover — thank  God 
for  it!  Thank — and  then,  under  all,  through  all,  over  and 


250  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

over,  that  aching  monotony:  "She  needs  you.  Jimmy. 
She  needs  you.  Jimmy. ' ' 

"Needs  me !"  I  groaned  aloud. 

"Plait-il?"  politely  murmured  the  harassed-looking  little 
French  captain,  my  vis-a-vis. 

"Mille  pardons,  monsieur,"  I  murmured  back.  "On  a 
quelquefois  des  griefs  particuliers,  vous  savez."  » 

"Ah  dame,  oui!"  he  sighed.    "Par  le  temps  qui  court!" 

"Et  ce  pachyderme  de  train  qui  ne  court  jamais!"  I 
smiled. 

"Ah,  pour  fa — $a  repose!"  murmured  the  little  French 
captain,  and  shut  his  eyes. 

' '  She  needs  you.  Jimmy.  She  needs  you.  Jimmy.  She 
needs " 

Then,  miraculously,  for  two  blotted  hours  I  slept.  But  I 
woke  again,  utterly  unrefreshed,  to  the  old  refrain:  She 
needs  you — needs  you — needs  you.  .  .  . 

The  little  French  captain  was  still  asleep,  snoring  now — 
but  softly — in  his  corner.  Ah,  lucky  little  French  captain ! 
f  a  repose! 

IV 

One  afternoon,  five  or  six  days  later,  I  was  seated  by  the 
white-enamelled  iron  bed  in  the  small  white  room.  Susan 
had  had  a  long,  quiet,  normal  nap,  and  her  brisk  sparrow- 
eyed  Norman  nurse,  in  her  pretty  costume  of  the  French 
Bed  Cross,  had  come  to  me  in  the  little  reception-room  of 
the  hospital,  where  I  had  been  sitting  for  an  hour  stupidly 
thumbing  over  tattered  copies  of  ancient  American  maga- 
zines, and  had  informed  me — with  rather  an  ambiguous 
twinkle  of  those  sparrow  eyes — that  her  patient  had  asked 
to  see  me  as  soon  as  she  had  waked,  was  evidently  feeling 
stronger,  and  that  it  was  to  be  hoped  M.  le  Capitaine  would 
be  discreet  and  say  nothing  to  excite  or  fatigue  the  poor 
little  one.  "Je  me  sauve,  m'sieu,"  she  had  added,  mis- 
chievously grave;  "on  ne  pent  avoir  I' ceil  a  tout,  mais — 
je  compte  sur  vous." 

So  innocently  delighted  had  she  been  by  her  pleasant 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  251 

suspicions,  it  was  impossible  to  let  her  feel  how  sharply 
her  raillery  had  pained  me.  But  I  could  not  reply  in  kind. 
I  had  merely  bowed,  put  down  the  magazine  in  my  hand, 
and  so  left  her — to  inevitable  reflections,  I  presume,  upon 
the  afflicting  reticence  of  these  otherwise  so  agreeable  allies 
d' outre  mer.  Their  education  was  evidently  deplorable. 
One  never  knew  when  they  would  miss  step,  inconveniently, 
and  so  disarrange  the  entire  social  rhythm  of  a  conversa- 
tion. 

"Ambo,"  said  Susan,  putting  her  hand  in  mine,  "do 
you  know  at  all  how  terribly  I  've  missed  you  ? ' '  She  turned 
her  head  weakly  on  her  pillow  and  looked  at  me.  "You're 
older,  dear.  You  've  changed.  I  like  your  face  better  now 
than  I  ever  did." 

I  wrinkled  my  nose  at  her.  "Is  that  saying  much?"  I 
grimaced. 

' '  Heaps ! ' '  She  attempted  to  smile  back  at  me,  but  her 
tower  lip  quivered.  "Yours  has  always  been  my  favorite 
/ace,  you  know,  Ambo.  Phil's  is  wiser — somehow,  and 
stronger,  too;  and  Jimmy's  is  sunnier,  healthier,  and — yes, 
nandsomer,  dear !  Nobody  could  call  you  handsome,  could 
they?  But  you're  not  ugly,  either.  Sister  was  adorably 
ttgly.  It  was  a  daily  miracle  to  see  the  lamp  in  her  sud- 
denly glow  through  and  glorify  everything.  I  used  to 
wait  for  it.  It's  the  only  thing  that  has  ever  made  me 
feel — humble ;  I  never  feel  that  way  with  you.  I  just  feel 
satisfied,  content." 

"'Like  putting  on  an  old  pair  of  slippers,"  I  ventured. 

"That's  it,"  sighed  Susan  happily,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"That's  it!"  echoed  my  familiar  demon,  "but  no  one  but 
Susan  would  have  admitted  it." 

As  usual,  I  found  it  wiser  to  cut  him  dead. 

"Well,  dear,"  I  said  to  Susan,  "there's  one  good  thing: 
you'll  be  able  to  use  the  old  pair  of  slippers  any  time  you 
need  them  now.  I  'm  to  be  held  in  Paris,  I  find,  for  a  three- 
montha'  job." 

She  opened  her  eyes  again ;  disapprovingly,  I  felt. 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  that,  Ambo!    You're  needed 


252  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

at  Evian;  I  know  you  are.  It's  bad  enough  to  be  out  of 
things  myself,  but  I  won't  drag  you  out  of  them!  How 
could  you  imagine  that  would  please  me?" 

"I  hoped  it  would,  a  little,"  I  replied,  "but  it  hasn't 
any  of  it  been  my  doing — Chatworth's  wife's  expecting  a 
baby  in  a  few  weeks,  and  he  wants  to  run  home  to  welcome 
it ;  I  'm  to  take  on  his  executive  work  till  he  gets  back.  God 
knows  he  needs  a  rest!" 

"As  if  you  didn't,  too!"  protested  Susan,  inconsistently 
enough.  Her  eyes  fell  shut  again ;  her  hands  slipped  from 
mine.  "Ambo,"  she  asked  presently,  in  a  thread  of  voice 
that  I  had  to  lean  down  to  her  to  hear, ' '  have  they  told  you 
I  can  never  have  a  baby  now  ?  .  .  .  Wasn  't  it  lucky  if  that 
had  to  happen  to  some  woman — it  happened  to  me  ? " 

No,  they  had  not  told  me;  and  for  the  moment  I  could 
not  answer  her. 

"Jimmy's  wife  is  going  to  have  a  baby  soon,"  added 
Susan. 

"Jimmy's — what!"  I  shrieked.  Yes,  shrieked — for,  to 
my  horror,  I  heard  my  voice  crack  and  soar,  strident,  in- 
credulous. 

Susan  was  staring  at  me,  wide-eyed,  her  face  aquiver 
with  excitement;  two  deep  spots  of  color  flaming  on  hep 
thin  cheeks. 

"Didn't  you  knowf" 

The  white  door  opened  as  she  spoke,  and  Susan 's  Norman 
nurse  hurried  in,  her  sparrow  eyes  transformed  to  stiletto 
points  of  indignation.  "Ah,  m'sieu — c'est  trop  fort!  When 
I  told  you  expressly  to  do  nothing  to  excite  the  poor  little 
one !"  I  rose,  self -convicted,  before  her. 

"Tais-toi,  Annette!"  exclaimed  Susan  sharply,  her  eyes 
too  gleaming  with  indignation.  "It  is  not  your  place  to 
speak  so  to  m'sieu,  a  man  old  enough  to  be  your  father — 
and  more  than  a  father  to  me !  For  shame !  His  surprise 
was  unavoidable!  I  have  just  given  him  a  shock — unex- 
pected news !  Good  news,  however,  I  am  glad  to  say.  Now 
leave  us ! " 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  Nurse  Annette,  four  feet 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  253 

eleven  of  uncompromising  and  awful  dignity,  "I  am  in 
charge  here,  and  it  is  m'sieu  who  will  leave — tout  court! 
But  I  regret  my  vivacite,  m'sieu!" 

"It  is  nothing,  mademoiselle.  You  have  acted  as  you 
should.  It  is  for  me  to  offer  my  regrets.  But — when  may 
I  return?" 

' '  To-morrow,  m  'sieu, ' '  said  Nurse  Annette. 

"Naturally,"  said  Susan.  ''Now  sit  down,  please,  Ambo, 
and  listen  to  me." 

For  an  instant  the  stiletto  points  glinted  dangerously; 
then  Nurse  Annette  giggled.  That  is  precisely  what  Nurse 
Annette  did;  she  giggled.  Then  she  twirled  about  on  her 
toes  and  left  us — very  quietly,  yet  not  without  a  certain 
malicious  ostentation,  closing  the  door. 

The  French  are  a  brave  people,  an  intelligent  and  indus- 
trious people;  but  they  exhibit  at  times  a  levity  almost 
childlike  in  the  descendants  of  so  ancient  and  so  deeply 
civilized  a  race.  .  .  . 

"I  knew  nothing  about  it  myself,  Ambo,"  Susan  was 
saying,  "until  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  stronger, 
after  my  operations  at  Dunkirk.  Then  Mona  brought  me 
letters — three  from  you,  dear,  and  one  long  one  from 
Jimmy.  But  no  letter  from  Phil.  I'd  hoped,  foolishly  I 
suppose,  for  that.  Jimmy's  was  the  dearest,  funniest  letter 
I've  ever  read;  it  made  me  laugh  and  cry  all  at  once.  It 
wasn  't  a  bit  good  for  me,  Ambo.  It  used  me  all  up !  And 
I  kept  wondering  what  you  must  be  thinking.  You  see, 
he  said  in  it  he  had  written  you. ' ' 

"I've  had  no  letter  from  Jimmy  for  at  least  five  or  six 
months,"  I  replied. 

"So  many  letters  start  bravely  off  over  here,"  sighed 
Susan, ' '  and  then  just  vanish — like  Phil.  How  many  heart- 
breaks they  must  have  caused,  all  those  vanished  letters — 
and  men.  And  how  silly  of  me  to  think  about  it!  There 
must  be  some  fatal  connection,  Ambo,  between  being  sick 
and  being  sentimental.  I  suppose  sentimentality's  always 
one  symptom  of  weakness.  I've  never  been  so  disgustingly 
maudlin  as  these  past  weeks — never ! ' ' 


254  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

"So  Jimmy's  married,'7 1  repeated  stupidly,  for  at  least 
the  third  time. 

"Yes,"  smiled  Susan,  "to  little  Jeanne-Marie  Valerie 
Josephine  Aulard.  I  haven 't  seen  her,  of  course,  but  I  feel 
as  if  I  knew  her  well.  They've  been  married  now  almost 
a  year. ' '  She  paused  again.  ' '  Why  don 't  you  look  gladder, 
Ambo?  Why  don't  you  ask  questions?  You  must  be  dying 
to  know  why  Jimmy  kept  it  a  secret  from  us  so  long." 

I  had  not  dared  to  ask  questions,  for  I  believed  I  could 
guess  why  Jimmy  had  kept  it  a  secret  from  us  so  long.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  I  thought,  Jimmy  had  been  a 
craven.  He  had  been  afraid  to  tell  Susan  of  an  event 
which  he  must  know  would  be  like  a  knife  in  her  heart. 

' '  I  suppose  I  'm  foolishly  hurt  about  it, "  I  mumbled. 

How  bravely  she  was  taking  it  all,  in  spite  of  her  physical 
exhaustion!  Poor  child,  poor  child!  But  in  God's  name 
what  then  was  the  meaning  of  my  vision  back  there  in  the 
hotel  room  at  Evian?  Jimmy  entering  this  room  where  I 
now  sat,  tiptoeing  to  this  very  bedside,  stooping  down  and 
kissing  Susan — and  her  hand  lifted,  overcoming  an  almost 
mortal  weakness,  to  touch  his  hair.  .  .  . 

"You  mustn't  be  hurt  at  all,"  Susan  gently  rebuked  me. 
"Jimmy  kept  his  marriage  a  secret  from  us  for  a  very 
Jimmyesque  reason.  There  was  nothing  specially  exciting 
or  romantic  about  the  courtship  itself,  though.  Little 
Jeanne-Marie's  father — he  was  a  notary  of  Soissons  who 
had  made  a  nice,  comfy  little  fortune  for  those  parts — died 
just  before  the  war.  So  the  Widow  Aulard  retired  with 
Jeanne-Marie  to  a  brand-spandy-new,  very  ugly  little  coun- 
try house — south  of  the  Aisne,  Ambo,  not  far  from  Sois- 
sons ;  the  canny  old  notary  had  just  completed  it  as  a  haven 
for  his  declining  years  when  he  up  and  died.  Well  thenr 
during  the  first  German  rush,  Widow  Aulard — being  a  good 
extra-stubborn  bourgeoise — refused  to  leave  her  home — re- 
fused, Jeanne-Marie  told  Jimmy,  even  to  believe  the  Boches 
would  ever  really  be  permitted  to  come  so  far.  That  was 
foolish,  of  course — but  doesn't  it  make  you  like  her,  and 
see  her — mustache  and  all  ? 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  255 

"But  the  deluge  was  too  much,  even  for  her.  One  morn- 
ing, after  a  night  of  terror,  she  found  herself  compulsory 
housekeeper,  and  little  Jeanne-Marie  compulsory  servant, 
to  a  kennel  of  Bavarian  officers.  Then,  three  weeks  or  so 
later,  the  orderly  of  one  of  these  officers,  an  Alsatian,  was 
discovered  to  be  a  spy  and  was  shot — and  the  Widow 
Aulard  was  shot,  too,  for  having  unwittingly  harbored  him. 
Jeanne-Marie  wasn't  shot,  though;  the  kennel  liked  her 
cooking.  So,  like  the  true  daughter  of  a  French  notary, 
she  used  her  wits,  made  herself  indispensable  to  the  comfort 
of  the  officers,  preserved  her  dignity  under  incredible 
insults,  and  her  virtue  under  conditions  I  needn't  tell  you 
about,  Ambo — and  bided  her  time. 

"It  nearly  killed  her;  but  she  lived  through  it,  and 
finally  the  French  returned  and  helped  her  patch  up  and 
clean  up  what  was  'left  of  the  kennel.  And  a  month  or  so 
later  Jimmy's  esquadrille  made  Jeanne-Marie's  battered 
little  house  their  headquarters  and  treated  its  mistress  like 
the  staunch  little  heroine  she  is.  Of  course,  Jimmy  wasn't 
attached  to  the  esquadrille  then;  it  was  more  than  a  year 
later  that  he  arrived  on  the  scene ;  but  it  didn  't  take  him 
long  after  getting  there  to  decide  on  an  international 
alliance.  Bless  him !  he  says  Jeanne-Marie  isn  't  very  pretty, 
he  guesses;  she's  just — wonderful!  She  couldn't  make  up 
her  mind  to  the  international  alliance,  though.  She  loved 
Jimmy,  but  the  match  didn't  strike  her  as  prudent.  An 
orphan  must  consider  these  things.  Her  property  had  been 
swept  away,  and  Jimmy  admitted  he  had  nothing.  And 
being  her  father's  daughter,  Jeanne-Marie  very  wisely 
pointed  out  that  he  was  in  hourly  peril  of  being  killed  or 
crippled  for  life.  To  marry  under  such  circumstances 
would  be  to  make  her  father  turn  in  his  grave.  How  can 
anything  so  sad  be  so  funny,  Ambo  ?  Well,  anyway,  Jimmy, 
being  Jimmy,  saw  the  point,  agreed  with  her  completely, 
and  seems  to  have  felt  thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself  for 
trying  to  persuade  her  into  so  crazy  a  match ! 

1 '  Then  little  Jeanne-Marie  came  down  with  typhoid ;  her 
life  was  despaired  of,  a  priest  was  summoned.  In  the  pres- 


256  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

ence  of  death,  she  managed  to  tell  the  priest  that  it  would 
seem  less  lonely  and  terrible  to  her  if  she  could  meet  it  as 
the  wife  'M'sieu  Jee-mee.'  So  the  good  priest  managed 
somehow  to  slash  through  yards  of  official  red  tape  in  no 
time — you  know  how  hard  it  is  to  get  married  in  France, 
Ambo! — and  the  sacrament  of  marriage  preceded  the  last 
rites;  and  then,  dear,  Jeanne-Marie  faced  the  Valley  of 
Shadow  clinging  to  M'sieu  Jee-mee 's  hand.  The  whole 
esquadrille  was  unstrung — naturally;  even  their  famous 
ace,  Boisrobert.  Jimmy  says  he  absolutely  refused  to  fly 
for  three  days."  Tears  were  pouring  from  Susan's  eyes. 

' '  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  am ! ' '  she  protested,  mopping  at  them 
with  a  corner  of  the  top  sheet.  ' '  She  didn  't  die,  of  course. 
She  rallied  at  the  last  moment  and  got  well — and  found 
herself  safely  married  after  all,  and  quite  ready  to  take 
her  chances  of  living  happily  with  M'sieu  Jee-mee  ever 
afterward !  There — isn  't  that  a  nice  story,  Ambo  ?  Don 't 
you  like  pretty-pie  fairy  tales  when  they  happen  to  be 
true?" 

That  she  could  ask  me  this  with  her  heart  breaking! 
Again  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  speak  calmly ;  and  I  saw 
that  she  was  worn  out  with  the  effort  she  had  made  to  over- 
come her  weakness,  and  what  I  believed  to  be  a  living  pain 
in  her  breast.  I  rose. 

' '  Ambo ! ' '  she  exclaimed,  wide-eyed,  ' '  still  you  don 't  ask 
me  why  Jimmy  didn't  tell  us!  How  stupid  of  you  to  take 
it  all  like  this!" 

"I've  stayed  too  long,  dear,"  I  mumbled;  "far  too  long. 
I've  let  you  talk  too  much.  Why,  it's  almost  dark!  To- 
morrow  " 

"No,  now,"  she  insisted,  with  a  little  frown  of  displeas- 
ure. "I  won't  have  you  thinking  meanly  of  Jimmy!  It's 
too  absurdly  unfair !  I  'm  ashamed  of  you,  Ambo. ' ' 

How  she  idealized  him!  How  she  had  always  idealized 
that  normal,  likable,  essentially  commonplace  Irish  boy — 
pouring  out,  wasting  for  him  treasures  of  unswerving 
loyalty !  It  was  damnable.  But  these  things  were  the  final 
mysteries  of  life,  these  instinctive  bonds,  yielding  no  clue  to 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  257 

reason.  One  could  only  accept  them,  bitterly,  with  a  curse 
or  a  groan  withheld.  Accept  them — since  one  must.  .  .  . 

"Well,  dear,"  broke  from  me  with  a  touch,  almost,  of 
impatience,  "I  confess  I'm  more  interested  in  your  health 
than  in  Jimmy's  psychology!  But  I  see  you  won't  sleep 
a  wink  if  you  don 't  tell  me ! ' ' 

' '  I  've  never  known  you  to  be  so  horrid, ' '  she  said  faintly, 
all  the  weariness  of  body  and  soul  returning  upon  her  for  a 
moment,  till  she  fought  it  back.  She  did  so,  to  my  amaze- 
ment, with  an  entirely  unexpected  chuckle,  a  true  sharp, 
clear  Birch  Street  gleam.  "You  don't  deserve  it,  Anibo, 
but  I  'm  going  to  make  you  smile  a  little,  whether  you  feel 
like  it  or  not!  The  reason  Jimmy  didn't  tell  us  was  be- 
cause— after  Jeanne-Marie  got  well — he  spent  weeks  trying 
to  persuade  her  that  a  marriage  made  exclusively  for 
eternity  oughtn't  to  be  considered  binding  on  this  side! 
She  had  been  entirely  certain,  he  kept  pointing  out  to  her, 
that  she  ought  not  to  marry  him  in  this  world,  and  she 
had  only  done  so  when  she  thought  she  was  being  taken 
from  it."  Susan  chuckled  again.  "Can't  you  hear  him, 
Ambo — and  her?  Jimmy,  feeling  he  had  won  something 
precious  through  an  unfair  advantage  and  so  refusing  his 
good  fortune — or  trying  to;  and  practical  Jeanne-Marie 
simply  nonplussed  by  his  sudden  lack  of  all  common  sense ! 
Besides  which,  wasn't  marriage  a  sacrament,  and  wasn't 
M  'sieu  Jee-mee  a  good  Catholic  ?  Was  he  going  back  on  his 
faith — or  asking  her  to  trifle  with  hers?  And,  anyway, 
they  were  married — that  was  the  end  of  it !  And  of  course, 
Ambo,  it  was — really.  There!  I  knew  sooner  or  later 
you  'd  have  to  smile ! ' ' 

"Did  he  give  in  gracefully?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  things  soon  settled  themselves,  I  imagine,  when 
Jeanne-Marie  was  well  enough  to  leave.  Naturally,  she 
had  to  as  soon  as  she  could.  A  soldier 's  wife  can 't  live  with 
him  at  the  Front,  you  know — even  to  keep  house  for  his 
esquadrille.  She 's  living  here  now,  in  Paris,  with  a  distant 
cousin,  an  old  lady  who  runs  a  tiny  shop  near  St.-Sulpice — 
sells  pious  pamphlets  and  pink-and-blue  plaster  Virgins — 


258  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

you  know  the  sort  of  thing,  Ambo.  You  must  call  on  her 
at  once  in  due  form,  dear.  You  must.  I'm  so  eager  to — 
when  I  can."  She  paused  on  a  breath,  then  added  slowly, 
her  eyes  closing,  "The  baby's  expected  in  February — 
Jimmy's  baby." 

The  look  on  her  face  had  puzzled  me  as  I  left  her;  a 
look  of  quiet  happiness,  I  must  have  said — if  I  had  not 
known. 

And  my  vision  at  Evian ? 

I  walked  back  toward  the  barrier  down  endless  darken- 
ing avenues  of  suburban  Neuilly;  walked  by  instinct, 
though  quite  unconscious  of  direction,  straight  to  the  Porte 
Maillot,  through  the  emotional  nightmare  of  what  my  old 
childhood  nurse,  Maggie,  used  always  to  call  "a  great  state 
of  mind." 


And  that  night — it  was,  I  think,  the  thirtieth  of  Jan- 
uary, or  was  it  the  thirty -first? — fifty  or  sixty  Boche 
aeroplanes  came  by  detached  squadrons  over  Paris 
and,  for  the  first  time  since  the  Zeppelins  of  1916, 
dropped  a  shower  of  bombs  on  the  agglomeration  Par- 
isienne.  It  was  an  entirely  successful  raid,  destructive  of 
property  and  life ;  for  the  German  flyers  in  their  powerful 
Gothas  had  caught  Paris  napping,  impotently  unprepared. 

I  had  dined  that  evening  with  an  old  acquaintance,  doing 
six-months'  time,  as  it  amused  him  to  put  it,  with  the  pur- 
chasing department  of  the  Red  Cross ;  a  man  who  had  long 
since  turned  the  silver  spoon  he  was  born  with  to  solid 
gold,  and  who  could  see  no  reason  why,  just  because  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  giving  something  for  noth- 
ing, he  should  deprive  himself  while  doing  so  of  the  very 
high  degree  of  creature  comfort  he  had  always  enjoyed.  He 
was  stationed  in  Paris,  and  it  was  his  invariable  custom 
to  dine  sumptuously  at  one  of  the  more  expensive  res- 
taurants. 

This  odd  combination  of  service  and  sybaritism  was  not 
tnueh  to  my  liking,  seeming  to  indicate  a  curious  lack  of 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  259 

imaginative  sympathy  with  the  victims  of  that  triumphing 
Misery  he  was  enlisted  to  combat ;  nevertheless,  I  had  prop- 
erly appreciated  my  dinner.  It  is  impossible  not  to  appre- 
ciate a  well-ordered  dinner,  chez  Durant,  where  wartime 
limitations  seemed  never  to  weigh  very  heavily  upon 
the  delicately  imagined  good  cheer.  True,  the  cost  of 
this  good  cheer  was  fantastic,  and  I  shuddered  a  little 
as  certain  memories  of  refugee  hordes  at  Evian  intruded 
themselves  between  our  golden  mouthfuls;  but  the 
bouquet  of  a  fine  mellowed  Burgundy  was  in  my  nos- 
trils and  soon  proved  anaesthetic  to  conscience.  And 
Arthur  Dalton  is  a  good  table  companion;  his  easy  flow 
of  conversation  quite  as  mellow  often  as  the  wine  he  knows 
so  well  how  to  select.  But  that  night,  though  I  did  my 
poor  best  to  emulate  him,  I  fear  he  did  not  find  an  equal 
combination  of  the  soothing  and  the  stimulating  in  me. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  I  had  bored  him  that  I  was 
destined  before  we  parted  to  catch  a  rather  startling 
glimpse  of  a  new  Arthur  Dalton,  new  at  least  to  me ;  a  per- 
son wholly  different  from  the  amusing  man  of  the  world  I 
had  long,  but  so  casually,  known. 

"Hunt,"  he  said  unexpectedly,  over  a  final  glass  of  old 
yellow  Chartreuse,  a  liquor  almost  unobtainable  at  any 
price,  "you've  changed  a  lot  since  our  days  here  together." 
We  had  seen  something  of  each  other  once  in  Paris,  years 
before,  during  a  fine  month  of  spring  weather;  it  was  the 
year  after  my  wife  had  left  me.  "A  lot,"  he  repeated; 
"and  I  wish  I  could  say  for  the  better.  You've  aged,  man, 
before  you're  old.  You've  let  life,  somehow,  get  on  your 
nerves,  depress  you.  Suffered  your  genial  spirits  to  rot, 
as  the  poet  says.  That's  foolish.  It's  a  kind  of  defeat — 
acceptance  of  defeat.  Now  my  philosophy  is  always  to  stay 
on  top — where  the  cream  lies.  Somebody's  going  to  get  it 
if  you  and  I  don't,  eh?  "Well,  I'm  having  my  share.  I 
don't  want  more  and  I'm  damned  if  I'll  take  less.  Any- 
thing wrong  with  that  point  of  view,  old  man?  I'd  be 
willing  to  swear  it  used  to  be  yours ! ' ' 

"Never  quite,  I  think,"  was  my  answer;  "at  least  I 


260  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

never  formulated  it  that  way.  I  took  things  pretty  easily 
as  they  came,  Dalt,  and  didn't  worry  about  reasons.  I've 
never^  been  a  philosophical  person,  never  lived  up  to  any 
consciously  organized  plan.  If  I  had  any  God  in  those 
days  I  suppose  I  named  him  'Culture' ;  or  worse  still  'Good 
Taste.'  Not  much  of  a  god  for  these  times,"  I  added. 

' '  Oh,  I  don 't  know, ' '  Dalton  struck  in ;  ' '  I  'm  not  so  sure 
of  that !  I  can 't  see  that  these  times  differ  much  from  any 
others.  There's  a  big  war  on,  yes;  but  that's  nothing 
new,  is  it?  Looks  to  me  pretty  much  like  the  same  old 
planet,  right  now.  Never  was  much  of  a  planet  for  the 
great  majority;  never  will  be.  A  few  of  us  get  all  the 
prizes — always  have.  Some  of  us  partly  deserve  'em,  but 
most  of  us  just  happen  to  be  lucky.  I  don't  see  anything 
that's  likely  to  change  that  arrangement.  Do  you?" 

"They've  changed  it  in  Russia,"  I  suggested. 

' '  Not  a  bit ! "  exclaimed  Dalton.  ' '  Some  different  people 
have  taken  their  big  chance  and  climbed  on  top,  that's  all! 
I  doubt  if  they  stay  there  long ;  still,  they  may.  That  fel- 
low Lenine,  now;  he  has  a  kind  of  well-up-in-the-saddle 
feel  to  him.  Quite  a  boy,  I've  no  doubt;  and  if  he  sticks, 
I  congratulate  him!  It's  the  one  really  amusing  place  to 
be." 

"You  sound  like  a  Junker  war-lord,"  I  smiled.  "For- 
tunately, I  know  your  bark,  and  I've  never  seen  you  bite." 

"My  dear  Hunt,"  said  Dalton,  lowering  his  voice,  "my 
teeth  are  perfectly  sound,  I  assure  you;  and  I've  always 
used  'em  when  I  had  to,  believe  me.  It's  the  law  of  life,  a^ 
I  read  it.  And  just  here  between  ourselves,  eh — cutting  oui3 
all  the  nonsense  we've  learned  to  babble — do  you  see  any 
difference  between  a  Junker  war-lord  and  a  British  Tory 
peer — or  an  American  capitalist?  Any  real  difference,  I 
mean?  I'm  all  for  licking  Germany  if  we  can,  because  if 
we  don 't  she  11  control  the  cream  supply  of  the  world.  But 
I  can 't  blame  her  for  wanting  to,  and  if  she  gets  away  with 
it — which  the  devil  forbid! — we'll  all  mighty  soon  forget 
all  the  nasty  things  we've  been  saying  about  her  and  begin 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  261 

trying  to  lick  her  Prussian  boots  instead  of  her  armies! 
That's  so,  and  you  know  it!  Why,  the  most  sickening 
thing  about  this  war,  Hunt,  isn't  the  loss  of  life — that  may 
be  a  benefit  to  us  all  in  the  end;  no  sir,  it's  the  moral  bum 
combe  it's  let  loose!  That  man  Wilson  simply  sweats  the 
stuff  day  and  night,  drenches  us  with  it — till  we  stink  like 
a  church  of  Easter  lilies.  Come  now!  Doesn't  it  all,  way 
down  in  your  tummy  somewhere,  give  you  a  good  honest 
griping  pain?" 

I  stared  at  him.  Yes ;  the  man  was  evidently  in  earnest ; 
was  even,  I  could  see,  expecting  me  to  smile — however 
deprecatingly,  for  form 's  sake — and  in  the  main  agree  with 
him,  as  became  my  situation  in  life ;  my  class.  I  had  sup- 
posed myself  incapable  of  moral  shock,  but  found  now  that 
the  sincerity  of  his  cynicism  had  unquestionably  shocked 
me ;  I  felt  suddenly  embarrassed,  awkward,  ashamed. 

"Dalt,"  I  finally  managed,  pretty  lamely,  "it's  absurd, 
I  admit ;  but  if  I  try  to  answer  you,  I  shall  lose  my  temper. 
I  mean  it.  And  as  I  've  dined  wonderfully  at  your  expense, 
that's  something  I  don't  care  to  do." 

It  was  his  turn  to  stare  at  me. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Hunt,  you've  been  caught  by  all 
this  sentimental  parson's  palaver?  Brotherhood,  peace  on 
earth,  all  the  rest  of  it?" 

My  nerves  snapped.  "If  you  insist  on  a  straight  an- 
swer," I  said,  "you  can  have  it:  I've  no  use  for  a  world 
that  spiritually  starves  its  poets  and  saints,  and  physically 
fattens  its  hyenas  and  hogs!  And  if  that  isn't  sentimental 
enough  for  you,  I  can  go  farther ! ' ' 

"Oh,  that'll  do,"  he  laughed,  uncomfortably  however. 
"I'm  always  forgetting  you're  a  scribbler,  of  sorts.  You 
scribblers  are  all  alike — emotionally  diseased.  If  you'd 
only  stick  to  your  real  job  of  amusing  the  rest  of  us,  it 
wouldn't  matter.  It's  when  you  try  to  reform  us  that  I 
draw  the  line ;  have  to.  I  can 't  afford  to  grow  brainsick — 
abnormal.  Well,"  he  added,  pushing  back  his  chair,  "come 
along  anyway !  We  've  just  time  to  get  over  to  the  Casino 


262  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

and  have  a  look  at  the  only  Gaby.  Been  there?  It's  a 
cheap  show,  after  Broadway,  but  it  does  well  enough  to 
pass  the  time." 

From  this  unalluring  suggestion  I  begged  off,  justly 
pleading  a  hard  day  of  work  ahead.  "And  if  you  don't 
mind,  Dalt,  I'll  walk  home." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  agreed;  "I'll  walk  along  with  you, 
if  you'll  take  it  easy.  I'm  not  much  for  exercise,  you 
know.  But  it 's  a  perfect  night. ' ' 

I  had  hoped  ardently  to  be  rid  of  him,  but  I  managed  to 
accept  his  company  with  apparent  good  grace,  and  we 
strolled  down  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo  toward  the  Tri- 
umphal Arch,  bathed  now  in  clearest  moonlight,  standing 
forth  to  all  Paris  as  a  cruelly  ironic  symbol  of  Hope,  never 
relinquished,  but  endlessly  deferred.  Turning  there,  the 
Champs-Ely  sees,  all  but  deserted  at  that  hour  in  wartime 
Paris,  stretched  on  before  us  down  a  gentle  slope,  half 
dusky,  half  glimmering,  and  wholly  silent  except  for  our 
lonesome-sounding  footfalls  and  the  distant  faint  plopping 
of  a  lame  cab-horse's  stumbling  heels. 

"Not  much  like  the  old  town  we  knew  once,  eh,  Hunt?" 
asked  Dalton. 

But  conversation  soon  faded  out  between  us,  as  we  made 
our  way  through  etched  mysteries  of  black  and  silver  under 
thick-set  leafless  branches.  An  occasional  light  beckoned  us 
from  far  ahead  down  our  pavement  vista;  for  Paris  had 
not  yet  fully  become  that  city — not  of  dreadful — but  of 
majestic  and  beautiful  night  we  were  later  to  know,  and 
to  love  with  so  changed  and  grave  a  passion. 

It  was  just  after  we  had  crossed  the  Rond-Point  that  the 
first  seven  or  eight  bombs  in  swift  even  succession  shat- 
teringly  fell.  They  were  not  near  enough  to  us  to  do  more 
than  root  us  to  the  spot  with  amazement, 

"What  the  hell?"  muttered  Dalton,  holding  my 
eyes.  .  .  . 

Then,  very  far  off,  a  curious  thin  wailing  noise  began, 
increasing  rapidly,  rising  to  an  eerie  scream  which  dou- 
bled and  redoubled  in  volume  as  it  was  taken  up  in  other 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  263 

quarters  and  came  to  us  in  intricately  rhythmic  waves. 

"Sirens,"  said  Dalton.  "The  pompiers  are  out.  I  guess 
they've  come,  damn  them,  eh?" 

"Seems  so,"  I  answered.  "Yes;  there  go  the  lights. 
I  must  get  to  Neuilly  at  once — a  sick  friend.  So  long,  old 
man." 

"Hold  on!"  he  called  after  me.    "Don't  be  an  ass!" 

To  my  impatient  annoyance,  for  they  impeded  my  prog- 
ress, knots  of  people  had  sprung  everywhere  from  the  dark- 
ness and  were  standing  now  in  open  spots,  in  the  full 
moonlight,  murmuring  together,  as  they  stared  with  back- 
ward-craned necks  up  into  the  spotless  sky.  .  .  . 

So,  with  crashing,  sinister,  unresolved  chords,  began  the 
Straussian  overture  to  the  great  Boche  symphony,  Gott 
Strafe  Paris,  played  to  its  impotent  conclusion  throughout 
those  bitter  spring  months  of  the  year  of  our  wonderment, 
1918!  Ninety-one  bombs  were  dropped  that  night  within 
the  old  fortifications;  more  than  two  hundred  were 
showered  on  the  banlieue.  No  subsequent  raid  was  to  prove 
equally  destructive  of  property  or  life,  and  it  was  disturb- 
ingly evident  that,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  the  shadowy 
air  lanes  to  Paris  lay  broadly  open  to  the  foe. 

Yet,  for  some  reason  unexplained,  the  Gothas  did  not 
immediately  or  soon  return.  Followed  a  hush  of  rather 
more  than  a  month,  during  which  Paris  worked  breathlessly 
to  improve  its  air  defenses  and  protect  its  more  precious 
monuments.  Comically  ugly  little  sausage-balloons — gorged 
caterpillars,  they  seemed,  raw  yellow  with  pale  green 
articulations  and  loathsome,  floppy  appendages — were 
moored  in  the  squares  and  public  gardens;  mountains  of 
sand  bags  were  heaped  about  the  Triumphal  Arch  and 
before  the  portals  of  Notre  Dame;  spies  were  hunted  out, 
proclamations  issued,  the  entrance  ways  to  deep  cellars 
were  placarded ;  and  Night,  that  long-exiled  princess,  came 
back  to  us,  royally,  in  full  mourning  robes.  In  her  honor 
all  windows  were  doubly  curtained,  all  street  lamps  ex- 
tinguished, or  dimmed  with  paint  to  a  heavy  blue.  We 


264  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

invoked  the  august  amplitude  of  darkness  and  would  gladly 
have  banished  the  trivial  prying  moon,  seeing  her  at  last  in 
true  colors  for  the  sinister  corpse  light  of  heaven  which  she 
is.  No  one,  I  think,  was  deceived  by  this  lengthening 
interval  of  calm.  Why  the  Gothas  did  not  at  once  return, 
what  restrained  them  from  following  up  their  easy 
triumph,  we  could  not  guess;  but  we  knew  they  would 
come  again,  would  come  many  times.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile,  for  most  of  us  who  dwelt  there,  life  went 
on  as  before,  busily  enough ;  but  for  one  of  us — as  for  how 
many  another — this  no  longer  mattered. 

Brave  little  Jeanne-Marie  Valerie  Josephine  Aulard,  on 
that  night  of  anguish,  died  in  giving  premature  birth  to 
Jimmy's  son,  James  Aulard  Kane — as  Susan  later  named 
him:  for  this  wizened,  unready  morsel  of  man's  flesh,  in 
spite  of  every  disadvantage  attending  his  debut  and  first 
motherless  weeks  on  earth,  clung  with  the  characteristic 
tenacity  of  his  parents  to  his  one  obvious  line  of  duty, 
which  was  merely  to  keep  alive  in  despite  of  fortune:  a 
duty  he  somehow  finally  accomplished  to  his  own  entire 
satisfaction  and  to  the  blessed  relief  of  Susan  and  of  me. 
But  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  pitiful  introduction  to 
James  Aulard  Kane. 

After  leaving  Dalton,  that  night,  I  had  finally  made  my 
way  to  Susan's  hospital  on  foot,  which  I  had  soon  found 
to  be  the  one  practicable  means  of  locomotion.  It  was  a 
long  walk,  and  it  brought  me  in  due  course  into  the  Avenue 
de  la  Grande  Armee,  just  in  time  to  receive  the  full  stam- 
peding effect  of  the  three  bombs  which  fell  there,  the  near- 
est of  them  not  four  hundred  yards  distant  from  me.  I  am 
by  no  means  instinctively  intrepid;  quite  the  contrary;  I 
shy  like  a  skittish  horse  in  the  presence  of  danger,  and  my 
first  authentic  impulse  is  always  to  cut  and  run.  On  this 
occasion,  by  the  time  I  had  mastered  this  impulse,  I  had 
placed  a  good  six  hundred  yards  between  me  and  that  ill- 
fated  building,  whose  stone-faced  upper  floors  had  been 
riven  and  hurled  down  to  the  broad  avenue  below.  Then, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  265 

shamefacedly  enough,  I  turned  and  forced  myself  back 
toward  that  smoking  ruin. 

Our  American  ambulances  from  Neuilly  were  already 
arriving — the  pompiers  came  later — and  the  police  lines 
were  being  drawn.  A  civilian  spectator,  even  though  a 
captain  of  the  Eed  Cross,  could  render  no  real  assistance; 
so  much,  after  certain  futile  efforts  on  my  part,  was  made 
clear  to  me,  profanely,  in  a  Middle  Western  accent,  by  a 
young  stretcher-bearer  whose  course  I  had  clumsily  im- 
peded. Clouds  of  lung-choking  dust,  milk-white  as  the 
moon's  full  rays  played  upon  them,  rolled  over  us — the 
subdued  crowd  that  gathered  slowly,  oblivious  of  further 
danger.  The  air  was  full  of  whispered  rumor — throughout 
Paris  hundreds — thousands,  said  some — had  already  died. 
We  were  keyed  to  believe  the  wildest  exaggerations,  to 
accept  the  worst  that  excited  imaginations  could  invent  for 
us.  Yet  there  was  no  panic ;  no  one  gave  way  to  hysterical 
outcry ;  and  the  fall  of  more  distant  bombs  brought  only  a 
deep  common  groan,  compounded  of  growling  imprecations 
— a  groan  truly  of  defiance  and  loathing,  into  which  neither 
fear  nor  pity  for  the  victims  of  this  frightfulness  could 
find  room  to  enter.  I  cursed  with  the  rest,  instinctively, 
from  the  pit  of  my  stomach,  and  turned  raging  away;  my 
whole  being  ached,  was  congested  with  rage.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  then  felt  in  its  full  hell-born  fury  that 
passion  so  often  named,  but  so  seldom  experienced  by 
civilized — or  what  we  call  civilized — man:  the  passion  of 
hate. 

By  the  time  I  had  reached  the  hospital  the  raid  was  over ; 
the  air  was  droning  from  the  bronze  vibrations  of  hundreds 
of  bells,  all  the  church-bells  of  Paris,  full-throated,  calling 
forth  their  immediate  surface  messages  of  cheer,  their 
deeper  message  of  courage  and  constancy. 

Though  it  was  very  late,  I  found  a  silent  group  of  four 
nurses  standing  in  the  heavily  shadowed  street  before  the 
shut  doors  of  this  small  civilian  hospital;  they  were  still 
staring  up  fixedly  at  the  silver-bright  sky.  They  proved 


266  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

to  be  day-nurses  off  duty,  and  among  them  was  Mademoi- 
selle Annette.  She  greeted  me  now  as  an  old  friend,  and 
brushing  rules  and  regulations  aside  like  a  true  French- 
woman took  me  at  once  to  Susan.  I  found  that  Susan  had 
risen  from  bed  and  was  seated  at  her  window,  which  looked 
out  across  the  winter-bare  hospital  garden. 

"Ambo, "  she  exclaimed  impatiently,  "why  did  you  come 
here !  I  'm  so  used  to  all  this.  But  Jeanne-Marie,  Ambo — 
in  her  condition!  I've  been  hoping  so  you  would  think 
of  her — go  to  her ! ' ' 

Then  what  fatuous  devil — was  it  my  old  familiar  demon  ? 
— put  it  into  my  heart  to  say:  "So  you  haven't  been 
worrying,  dear,  about  me?" 

' '  About  you ! ' '  she  cried.  ' '  Good  God,  no !  What  does 
it  matter  about  you — or  me!  This  generation's  done  for, 
Ambo.  Only  the  children  count  now — the  children.  We 
must  save  them — all  of  them — somehow.  It 's  up  to  them — 
to  Jimmy 's  son  with  the  rest !  They  've  got  to  wipe  us  out, 
clear  the  slate  of  us  and  all  our  insanities!  They've  got 
to  pass  over  the  wreck  of  us  and  rebuild  a  happy,  intel- 
ligible world!" 

She  rose,  seized  my  arm,  and  summoning  all  her  strength 
thrust  me  from  her  toward  the  door.  . 


VI 

It  was  well  on  toward  three  o  'clock  in  the  morning  when 
at  last  I  stood  before  the  black,  close-shuttered  shop-front 
of  the  Vve.  Guyot.  I  was  desperately  weary,  having  of 
necessity  walked  all  the  way.  It  was,  as  I  had  fully  realized 
while  almost  stumbling  along  toward  my  goal,  a  crazy 
errand.  I  should  find  a  dark,  silent  house,  and  I  should 
then  stumble  back  through  dark,  silent  streets  to  my  dark, 
silent  hotel.  The  shop  of  the  Widow  Guyot  was  a  very 
little  shop  on  a  very  narrow  street,  a  mere  slit  between 
high,  ancient  buildings — a  slit  filled  now  with  the  dense 
river-mist  that  shrouds  from  the  experience  of  Parisians 
all  the  renewing  wonders  of  clear-eyed  dawn.  The  moon 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  267 

had  set,  or  else  hung  too  veiled  and  low  for  this  pestilent 
alley ;  in  spite  of  a  thick  military  overcoat  I  shivered  with 
cold;  the  flat,  sour  smell  of  ill-flushed  gutters  caught  at 
my  throat.  To  this  abomination  of  desolation  I  had,  with 
no  little  difficulty,  found  my  way.  Thank  God  I  could 
turn  now,  with  a  good  conscience,  and  fumble  back  to  the 
warm  oblivion  of  bed. 

I  paused  a  moment,  however,  to  draw  up  the  collar  of 
my  overcoat  to  my  ears'  and  fasten  it  securely ;  and,  doing 
so,  I  was  aware  of  the  scrape  and  clink  of  metal  on  metal ; 
then  the  shop-door  right  before  me  was  shaken  and  jarred 
open  from  within.  The  fluttering  rays  of  a  candle,  tremu- 
lously held,  surprised  and  for  an  instant  blinded  me; 
faintly  luminous  green  and  red  balloons  wheeled  swiftly 
in  contracting  circles,  then  coalesced  to  a  flickering  point 
of  light.  The  candle  was  held  by  an  old,  stout  woman  with 
a  loose-jowled,  bruised-looking  face ;  a  face  somehow  sensual 
and  hard  in  spite  of  its  bloated  antiquity.  A  shrunken, 
thin-bearded  man  in  a  long  black  coat  stood  beside  her, 
holding  a  black  hand-bag.  The  two  were  conversing  in 
tones  deliberately  muted,  but  broke  off  and  stared  outward 
as  the  candle-light  discovered  me  in  the  narrow  street. 

' '  Ah,  M  'sieu,  one  sees,  is  American ;  he  has  perhaps  lost 
his  way?"  piped  the  thin-bearded  man,  pretty  sharply. 
He,  too,  was  old. 

' '  But  no, ' '  I  replied ;  ' '  I  am  here  precisely  on  behalf  of 
my  friend,  Lieutenant  Kane." 

At  this  name  the  old  woman  began,  only  to  check,  a 
half-startled  squawk,  lifting  her  candle  as  she  did  so  and 
peering  more  intently  at  me.  ' '  At  this  hour,  m  'sieu  ? ' '  she 
demanded  huskily.  ''"What  could  bring  you  at  such  an 
hour?" 

"Do  I  address  the  Widow  Guyot?"  I  was  quick  to 
respond. 

"Oui,  m'sieu." 

"Then,  permit  me  to  explain.''  As  briefly  as  possible 
I  told  her  who  I  was ;  that  I  had  but  very  recently  learned 
of  the  presence  of  Jimmy's  wife  in  Paris,  with  a  relative — 


268  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

learned  that  she  was  awaiting  the  birth  of  her  first  child 
at  the  house  of  this  excellent  woman.  "It  was  my  inten- 
tion to  call  soon,  madame,  in  any  case,  and  make  myself 
known — feeling  there  might  prove  to  be  many  little  serv- 
ices a  friend  would  be  only  too  happy  to  render.  But, 
after  this  terrible  raid,  I  found  it  impossible  to  retire  with 
an  easy  mind — at  least,  until  I  had  assured  myself  that 
all  was  well  with  you  here." 

On  this  there  came  a  pause,  and  the  thin-bearded  man 
cleared  his  throat  diligently  several  times. 

"The  truth  is,  m'sieu,"  he  finally  hazarded,  "that  your 
apprehension  was  only  too  just.  You  arrive  at  a  house  of 
mourning,  m'sieu.  You  arrive,  as  I  did,  alas — too  late! 
This  poor  Madame  Kane  you  would  inquire  for  is  dead. 
The  child,  on  the  contrary,  still  lives." 

"Enter,  m'sieu,"  said  the  Widow  Guyot.  "We  can  dis- 
cuss these  things  more  commodiously  within.  Doubtless, 
otherwise,  we  shall  receive  attentions  from  the  police ;  they 
are  nervous  to-night.  Naturally."  She  seemed,  I  thought 
— in  the  utter  blank  depression  which  had  seized  me  with 
the  doctor's  words — offensively  calm.  Whether,  had  a 
doctor  been  more  quickly  obtainable,  or  a  more  skillful 
practitioner  at  last  obtained,  little  Jeanne-Marie's  life 
might  have  been  spared,  I  am  unable  to  say.  I  feel  certain, 
however,  that  the  Widow  Guyot — under  difficult,  not  to 
say  terrifying  circumstances — had  kept  a  cool  head,  done 
her  best.  I  exonerate  her  from  all  blame.  But  I  add  this : 
Never  in  my  life  have  I  met  elsewhere  a  woman  who  seemed 
to  me  to  possess  such  cold-blooded  possibilities  for  evil. 
Yet,  so  far  as  I  know  to  this  hour,  her  life  has  always  been 
and  now  continues  industrious  and  thrifty ;  harmless  before 
the  law.  I  have  absolutely  "nothing  on  her" — nothing  but 
an  impression  I  shall  never  be  rid  of,  which  even  now 
returns  to  chill  me  in  nights  of  insomnia :  a  sense  of  having 
met  in  life  one  woman  whose  eyes  may  now  and  then  have 
watered  from  dust  or  wind,  but  could  never  under  any 
circumstances  conceivably  human  have  known  tears.  Other 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  269 

women,  too  many  of  them,  have  bored  or  exasperated  me 
with  maudlin  or  trivial  tears;  but  never  before  or  since 
have  I  met  a  woman  who  could  not  weep.  It  is  a  fixed 
idea  with  me  that  the  Widow  Guyot  could  not;  and  the 
idea  haunts  and  troubles  me  strangely — though  why  it 
should,  I  am  too  casual  a  psychologist  even  to  guess. 

At  her  heels,  I  crossed  a  small  cluttered  shop,  following 
the  tremulous  flame  of  the  candle  through  a  fantastic 
shadow  dance ;  Doctor  Pollain — who  had  given  me  his  name 
with  the  deprecating  cough  of  one  who  knows  himself 
either  unpleasantly  notorious  or  hopelessly  obscure — shuf- 
fled behind  us.  Madame  Guyot  opened  an  inner  door. 
Light  from  the  room  beyond  tempered  a  little  the  vague- 
ness about  me  and  ghostily  revealed  a  huddle  of  eccle- 
siastical trumpery — rows  of  thin,  pale-yellow  tapers;  small 
crucifixes  of  plaster  or  base-metal  gilded ;  a  stand  of  picture 
post-cards;  a  table  littered  with  lesser  gimeracks.  The 
direct  rays  from  Madame  Guyot's  candle,  as  she  turned  a 
moment  in  the  doorway,  wanly  illuminated  the  blue-coiffed, 
vapid  face  of  a  bisque  Virgin ;  gave  for  that  instant  a  half- 
flicker,  as  of  just-stirring  life,  to  her  mannered,  meaning- 
less smile. 

The  room  beyond  proved  to  be  a  good-sized  bedroom, 
its  one  window  muffled  by  heavy  stuff-curtains  of  a  dull 
magenta  red.  A  choking,  composite  odor — I  detected 
the  sick  pungency  of  chloroform — emerged  from  it.  I 
plunged  to  enter,  and  for  a  second  instinctively  held  my 
breath.  On  the  great  walnut  double-bed  lay  a  still  figure 
covered  with  a  sheet ;  the  proper  candles  twinkled  at  head 
and  foot.  But  it  is  needless  to  describe  these  things.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  a  smaller  room  beyond,  a  combined  living- 
and-dining  room,  stodgily  ugly,  but  comfortable  enough  as 
well,  that  I  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  James  Aulard 
Kane.  What  I  saw  was  a  great  roll  of  blankets  in  a  deep 
boxlike  cradle,  and  in  the  depths  of  a  deeply  dented  feather 
pillow  a  tiny,  wrinkled  monkey-face,  a  miniature  grotesque. 
The  small  knife-slit  that  served  him  for  mouth  opened  and 


270  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

shut  slowly  and  continuously,  as  if  feebly  gasping  for  diffi- 
cult breath.  He  gave  not  even  one  faint  encouraging  cry. 
I  turned  to  Doctor  Pollain,  shaking  my  head. 

"But  no!"  he  exclaimed.  "For  an  eight-months  child, 
look  you — he  has  vigor !  I  am  sure  he  will  live. ' ' 

' '  Then,  for  his  father 's  sake, ' '  I  replied,  ' '  we  must  take 
no  chances !  Isn  't  there  a  maternity  hospital  in  the  neigh- 
borhood where  he  can  receive  the  close  attention  that  you, 
madame,  at  your  age,  with  your  responsibilities,  ought  not 
to  be  expected  to  give?  I  make  myself  fully  responsible 
for  any  and  all  charges  involved.  Understand  me,  madame, 
and  you,  M.  le  Medecin,  I  insist  that  no  stone  shall  be  left 
unturned ! ' ' 

These  words  produced,  at  once,  a  grateful  change  in  the 
atmosphere — hitherto,  I  had  felt,  ever  so  slightly  hostile. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  follow  our  further  negotiations  to  their 
entirely  amicable  close.  Half  an  hour  later  I  left  the  shop 
of  the  Widow  Guyot,  satisfied  that  Doctor  Pollain  would 
assist  her  to  make  all  needful  arrangements,  and  promising 
to  get  into  communication  as  soon  as  it  could  be  managed 
with  ' '  M.  Jee-mee. ' '  I  should  return,  I  told  them,  certainly, 
before  noon. 

But  for  Jimmy's  sake,  on  leaving,  I  raised  a  corner  of 
the  sheet  covering  the  face  of  Jeanne-Marie.  It  was  a 
peaceful  face.  If  she  had  lately  suffered,  death  now  had 
quietly  smoothed  from  her  all  but  a  lasting  restfulness. 
A  good  little  woman,  I  mused,  of  the  best  type  provincial 
France  offers;  sensible,  yet  ardent;  practical,  yet  kind. 
As  I  looked  down  at  her,  the  meaningless  smile  of  the 
bisque  Madonna  in  the  shop  without  returned  to  me,  sim- 
pered for  a  half -second  before  me.  .  .  .  The  symbols  men 
made — and  sold — commercial  symbols !  The  Mother  of  Sor- 
rows, a  Chinese  toy!  Well.  .  .  . 

"One  thing  troubles  me,"  said  the  Widow  Guyot  at  my 
elbow,  in  her  husky,  passionless  voice:  "She  did  not  receive 
the  last  rites,  m'sieu.  When  the  bad  turn  came,  it  was 
not  possible  for  us  to  leave  her.  You  will  understand  that. 
There  was  a  new  life,  was  there  not?  Assuredly,  though, 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  271 

I  am  troubled ;  I  regret  that  this  should  have  happened  to 
me.  It  will  be  a  great  cause  for  scandal,  m  'sieu — when  you 
consider  my  connections — the  nature  of  my  little  affairs. 
But,  name  of  God,  that  will  pass ;  one  explains  these  things 
with  a  certain  success,  and  my  age  favors  me.  I  bear,  God 
be  praised,  a  good  name;  and  in  the  proper  quarters, 
m'sieu.  But — the  poor  little  one!  Observe  m'sieu,  that 
she  clasps  a  crucifix  on  her  breast.  Be  so  good  as  to 
remember  that  I  placed  it  in  her  hands — an  instant  before 
she  died." 

vn 

It  is  an  artistic  fault  in  real  life  that  it  deals  so  fre- 
quently in  coincidence,  to  the  casting  of  suspicion  upon 
those  who  report  it  veraciously.  On  the  very  night  that 
Jeanne-Marie  died,  probably  within  the  very  hour  that  she 
died,  Jimmy  was  shot  down,  while  taking  part  in  a  bombing 
expedition;  the  plane  he  was  conducting  was  seen,  by 
crews  of  the  two  other  bombing-plans  in  the  formation,  to 
burst  into  flames  after  a  direct  hit  from  an  anti-aircraft 
battery,  which  had  been  firing  persistently,  though  neces- 
sarily at  haphazard,  up  toward  the  bumble-bee  hum  of 
French  motors — so  betrayingly  unlike  the  irregular  gut- 
tural growl  of  the  German  machines. 

Throughout  the  following  morning  I  had  been  attempt- 
ing, with  the  indispensable  aid  of  my  old  friend,  Colonel 
,  of  the  French  war  office,  to  get  into  telegraphic  com- 
munication with  the  commander  of  Jimmy's  esquadrille; 
6ut  it  was  noon,  or  very  nearly,  before  this  unexpected 
word  came  to  us.  And  when  it  came,  I  found  myself  unable 
to  believe  it. 

In  the  very  spirit  of  Assessor  Brack,  "Things  don't 
happen  like  that!"  I  kept  insisting.  "It's  too  improbable. 
I  must  wait  for  further  verification.  "We  shall  see,  colonel, 
there's  been  an  error  in  names;  some  mistake."  I  was 
stubborn  about  it.  Simply,  for  Susan's  sake,  I  could  not 
admit  the  possibility  that  Jimmy  was  dead. 

During  the  midday  pause  I  hurriedly  made  my  way  to 


272  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

the  "Widow  Guyot's  little  shop.  The  baby  had  already 
been  taken  to  the  Hospice  de  la  Maternite — the  old  Con- 
vent of  Port  Royal,  near  the  cemetery  of  Montparnasse. 
He  had  stood  the  trip  well,  Madame  Guyot  assured  me, 
and  would  undoubtedly  win  through  to  a  ripe  old  age.  A 
priest  was  present.  I  told  Madame  Guyot  to  arrange  with 
him  for  a  proper  funeral  and  interment  for  Jeanne-Marie, 
and  was  at  once  informed  that  the  skilled  assistants  of  a 
local  director  of  pompes  funebres  were  even  then  at  work, 
embalming  her  mortal  remains. 

"So  much,  at  least,  m'sieu,"  said  Madame  Guyot,  "I 
knew  her  husband  would  desire ;  and  I  relied  on  your  sug- 
gestion that  no  expense  need  be  spared.  I  have  stipulated 
for  a  funeral  of  the  first  class" — a  specific  thing  in  France; 
so  many  carriages  with  black  horses,  so  many  plumes  of 
such  a  quality,  and  so  on — "it  only  remains  to  acquire  a, 
site  for  the  poor  little  one's  grave.  This,  too,  M'sieu  le 
Capitaine,  you  may  safely  leave  to  my  discretion;  but  we 
must  together  fix  on  a  day  and  hour  for  the  ceremonies. 
Is  it  yet  known  when  this  poor  Lieutenant  Kane  will 
arrive  in  Paris?" 

No,  it  was  not  yet  known ;  I  should  be  able  to  inform  her, 
I  hazarded,  before  nightfall;  and  I  thanked  her  for  the 
pains  she  was  taking,  and  again  assured  her  that  the  finan- 
cial question  was  of  no  importance.  As  I  said  this,  the 
priest,  a  dry  wisp  of  manhood,  softly  drew  nearer  and 
slightly  moistened  his  thin-set  lips;  but  he  did  not  speak. 
Possibly  Madame  Guyot  spoke  for  him. 

"At  such  times,  m'sieu,"  she  replied,  "one  does  what 
one  can.  But  naturally — that  is  understood.  One  is  not 
an  only  relative  for  nothing,  m'sieu.  The  heart  speaks. 
True,  I  have  hitherto  been  put  to  certain  expenses  for 
which  the  poor  little  one  had  promised  to  reimburse 
me " 

I  hastened  to  assure  her  that  she  had  only  to  present 
this  account  to  me  in  full,  and  we  parted  with  mutual 
though  secret  contempt,  and  with  every  sanctified  expres- 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  273 

sion  of  esteem.  Then  I  returned  to  the  cabinet  of  my 
friend,  Colonel . 

By  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  a  brief  telegram  from 
Jimmy's  commander  was  brought  to  us;  it  removed  every 
possibility  of  doubt,  even  from  my  obdurate  mind.  Jimmy 
had  "gone  "West"  once  for  all,  and  this  time  "West"  was 
not  even  a  geographical  expression.  ...  I  sat  silent  for 
perhaps  five  slowly  passing  minutes  in  the  presence  of 

Colonel  ,  until  I  was  aware  of  a  somewhat  amazed 

scrutiny  from  tired,  heavily  pouched  blue  eyes. 

"You  feel  this  deeply,"  he  observed,  "and  I — I  feel 
nothing,  except  a  vague  sympathy  for  you,  mon  ami. 
Accept,  without  phrases,  I  beg  you,  all  that  a  sad  old  man 
has  left  to  give. ' ' 

I  rose,  thanked  him  warmly  for  the  trouble  he  had  taken 
on  my  behalf,  and  left  him  to  his  endless,  disheartening 
labors.  France  was  in  danger;  he  knew  that  France  was 
in  danger.  What  to  him,  in  those  days,  was  one  young 
life  more  or  less?  He  himself  had  lost  three  sons  in  the 
war.  .  .  . 

But  how  was  I  to  let  fall  this  one  blow  more,  this 
heaviest  blow  of  all,  upon  Susan  ?  It  was  that  which  had 
held  me  silent  in  my  chair,  inhibiting  all  will  to  rise  and 
begin  the  next  needful  step.  Yes,  it  was  that ;  I  was  think- 
ing of  Susan,  not  of  Jimmy.  For  me  in  those  days,  I  fear, 
the  world  consisted  of  Susan,  and  of  certain  negligible 
phantoms — the  remainder  of  the  human  race.  It  is  not  an 
etat  d'ame  that  Susan  admires,  or  that  I  much  admire; 
but  in  those  days  it  was  certainly  mine.  And  this  is  the 
worst  of  a  lonely  passion:  the  more  one  loves  in  secret, 
without  fulfillment — and  however  unselfishly — the  more 
one  excludes.  Life  contracts  to  a  vivid,  hypnotizing  point ; 
all  else  is  shadow.  In  the  name  of  our  common  humanity, 
there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  those  who  are  fickle  or 
frankly  pagan,  who  love  more  lightly,  and  more  easily 
forget.  But  enough  of  all  this!  Phil  with  his  steady 
wisdom  might  philosophize  it  to  some  purpose ;  not  I. 


274  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

In  my  uncertainty  of  mind,  then,  the  first  step  that  I 
took  was  an  absurdly  false  one.  There  was  just  one  thing 
for  me  to  do,  and  I  did  not  do  it.  I  should  have  gone 
straight  to  Susan  and  told  her  about  Jimmy  and  Jeanne- 
Marie;  above  all,  about  James  Aulard  Kane.  Even  if 
Susan,  as  I  then  supposed,  loved  Jimmy,  and  had  always 
loved  him — knowing  her  as  I  did,  loving  her  as  I  did,  I 
should  have  felt  instinctively  that  this  was  the  one  wise 
and  kind,  the  one  possible  thing  to  do.  Yet  a  sudden  weak- 
ness, born  of  innate  cowardice,  betrayed  me. 

I  went,  instead,  direct  to  the  Hotel  Crillon  and  sent  up 
my  card  to  Miss  Leslie;  it  struck  me  as  fortunate  that  I 
found  her  just  returned  to  her  rooms  from  a  visit  to  Susan. 
It  was  really  a  calamity.  I  had  seen  her  several  times 
there,  at  the  hospital ;  I  liked  her ;  and  I  knew  that  Susan 
had  now  no  more  devoted  friend.  She  received  me  cor- 
dially, and  I  at  once  laid  all  the  facts  before  her  and — 
with  an  entirely  sincere  humbleness — asked  her  advice. 
But  God,  in  the  infinite  variety  of  his  creations,  had  never 
intended  Mona  Leslie  to  shine  by  reason  of  insight  or 
common  sense;  she  had  other  qualities!  And  this,  too,  I 
should  easily  have  discerned.  Why  I  did  not,  can  only 
be  explained  by  a  sort  of  prostration  of  all  my  faculties, 
which  had  come  upon  me  with  the  events  of  the  night  and 
morning  just  past.  I  was  inert,  body  and  soul;  I  could 
not  think;  I  felt  like  a  child  in  the  sweep  of  dark  forces 
it  cannot  struggle  against  and  does  not  understand;  in 
effect,  I  was  for  the  time  being  a  stricken,  credulous  child. 
Perhaps  no  grown  man,  not  definitely  insane,  has  ever 
touched  a  lower  stratum  of  spiritual  debility  than  I  then 
sank  to — resting  there,  grateful,  fatuously  content,  as  if  on 
firm  ground.  In  short,  I  was  a  plain  and  self-damned  fool. 

It  seemed  to  me,  I  remember,  during  our  hour's  talk 
together,  that  Miss  Leslie  was  one  of  the  two  or  three 
wisest,  most  understanding,  and  sympathetic  persons  I  had 
ever  met.  Sympathetic,  she  genuinely  was;  very  gracious 
and  interestingly  melancholy,  in  her  Belgian  nurse's  cos- 
Vume,  with  King  Albert's  decoration  pinned  to  her  breast. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  275 

It  seemed  to  me  that  she  divined  my  thoughts  before  I 
uttered  them ;  as  perhaps  she  did — for  to  call  them  thoughts 
is  to  dignify  vague  sensations  with  a  misleading  name. 
Miss  Leslie  had  had  always,  I  am  now  aware,  an  instinctive 
response  for  vague  sensations;  she  had  always  vibrated  to 
them  like  a  harp,  thus  surrounding  herself  with  an  odd, 
whispering  music.  A  strange  woman ;  not  without  nobility 
and  force  when  the  appropriate  vague  sensations  played 
upon  her.  The  sufferings  of  war  had  already  wrung  from 
her  a  wild,  aaolian  masterpiece,  more  moving  perha  >s  ban 
a  consciously  ordered  symphony.  And  Susan,  though  she 
had  never  so  much  as  guessed  at  Susan,  was  one  of  her 
passions!  Susan  played  on  us  both  that  day:  though  the 
mawkish  music  we  made  would  have  disgusted  her — did 
disgust  her  in  its  final  effects,  as  it  has  finally  disgusted 
me. 

"What  these  effects  were  can  be  briefly  told,  but  not 
briefly  enough  to  comfort  me.  There  is  no  second  page  of 
this  record  I  should  be  so  happy  not  to  write. 

Miss  Leslie  had  long  suspected,  she  told  me,  that  Susan — 
like  Viola's  hypothetical  sister — was  pining  in  thought 
for  a  secret,  unkind  lover,  and  she  at  once  accepted  as  a 
certainty  my  suggestion  that  so  gallant  a  young  aviator 
as  Jimmy  had  been  what ' '  glorious  Jane ' '  always  calls  her 
"object." 

"This  must  be  kept  from  her,  Mr.  Hunt,  at  all  costs — 
for  the  next  few  weeks,  I  mean!  She's  simply  not  strong 
enough  yet,  not  poised  enough,  to  bear  it — with  all  the 
rest !  It  would  be  cruelty  to  tell  her  now,  and  might  prove 
murderous.  Oh,  believe  me,  Mr.  Hunt — I  know!" 

Her  cocksure  intensity  could  not  fail  to  impress  me  in 
my  present  state  of  deadness;  I  listened  as  if  to  oracles. 
Then  we  conspired  together. 

"My  lease  of  the  villa  at  Mentone  runs  on  till  May," 
said  Miss  Leslie.  "Susan's  physically  able  for  the  journey 
now,  I  think ;  we  must  take  that  risk  anyway.  I  '11  get  the 
doctors  to  order  her  down  there  with  me,  at  once.  She 
needs  the  change,  the  peace;  above  all — the  beauty  of  it. 


276  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

She's  starved  for  beauty,  poor  soul!  And  there's  the  pos- 
sibility of  further  raids,  too;  she  mustn't  in  her  condition 
be  exposed  to  that.  When  she 's  stronger,  Mr.  Hunt — after 
she 's  had  a  few  happy  weeks — then  I  '11  tell  her  everything, 
in  my  own  way.  "Women  can  do  these  things,  you  know; 
they  have  an  instinct  for  the  right  moment,  the  right 
words! ' ' 

"You  are  proving  that  now,"  I  said.  Every  word  she  had, 
spoken  was  balm  to  me.  Everything  could  be  put  off — put 
off.  ...  To  put  things  off  indefinitely,  hide  them  out  of 
sight,  dodge  them  somehow !  Why,  she  was  voicing  the  one 
weary  cry  of  my  soul! 

And  so,  within  three  days,  this  supreme  folly  was  accom- 
plished. Mona  Leslie  and  I  stole  across  the  river  in  secret 
to  little  Jeanne-Marie's  meagerly  attended  "funeral  of  the 
first  class,"  and  with  Madame  Guyot,  Doctor  Pollain,  and 
a  few  casual  neighbors,  we  followed  her  coffin  from  the 
vast  drafty  dreariness  of  St.-Sulpice  to  the  wintry,  crowded 
alleys  of  the  cemetery  of  Montparnasse. — That  very  eve- 
Viing  Susan  left  with  Miss  Leslie  for  Mentone. 

She  was  glad  enough  to  go,  she  said,  for  a  week  or  two. 
"But  Ambo — what  shall  I  say  to  Jimmy?  Will  he  ever 
forgive  me  for  not  having  been  able  to  make  friends,  first, 
with  Jeanne-Marie?  And  it's  all  your  fault,  dear;  you 
must  tell  him  that — say  you've  been  downright  cross  with 
me  about  it.  I  wish  now  I  hadn't  listened  to  you;  I  feel 
perfectly  well  to-night;  I've  no  business  to  be  starting  on 
a  holiday.  But  I  shan't  stay  long,  Ambo.  I'll  be  back 
in  Paris  before  little  Jimmy  arrives;  I  promise  you  that. 
And  here's  a  letter  to  post,  dear;  I've  said  so  in  it  to 
Jeanne-Marie. ' ' 

A  dark  train  drew  out  of  a  dark  station.  With  it  went 
Hope,  the  shadow,  silently,  from  my  heart.  .  .  . 

VIII 

The  days  passed.  Mentone,  Miss  Leslie  wrote  me,  was 
doing  everything  for  Susan  that  we  had  desired.  "But 


she  is  determined, ' '  she  added,  "  to  be  back  in  Paris  by  the 
last  week  of  February — when  the  baby  was  expected.  She 
begins  to  be  bothered  that  you  write  so  scrappily  and 
vaguely,  and  that  she  hears  nothing  directly  from  Lieu- 
tenant  Kane  or  Jeanne-Marie.  I  shall  have  to  tell  her  soon 
now,  in  any  case.  It  seems  more  difficult  as  I  come  nearer 
to  it,  but  I  still  feel  sure  we  have  done  the  right  thing. 
I  'm  certain  now  that  Susan  will  be  able  to  face  and  bear  it. 
Already  she's  full  of  plans  for  the  future — wonderful! 
Possibly,  if  an  opportunity  offers,  I  shall  tell  her  to-night." 

The  next  afternoon  my  telephone  rang.  When  I  answered 
it,  Susan  spoke  to  me.  "Ambo,"  she  said,  "I'm  at  the 
France-et-Choiseul.  Please  come  over  at  once,  no  matter 
how  busy  you  are.  You  owe  that  much  to  me,  I  think." 
She  had  hung  up  the  receiver  before  I  could  stammer  a 
reply. 

But  nothing  more  was  necessary.  I  went  to  her  as  a 
criminal  goes  to  confession,  knowing  at  last  how  hideously 
in  her  eyes  I  had  sinned. 

"You  meant  well,  Ambo,"  she  said  with  a  gentleness 
that  yielded  nothing — "you  and  Mona.  Meaning  well's 
what  I  feel  now  I  can  never  quite  forgive  you.  You,  Ambo. 
Poor  Mona  doesn't  count  in  this.  But  you — I  thought  I 
was  safe  with  you.  No  matter." 

Later  she  said:  "I've  seen  Madame  Guyot — a  horrible 
woman;  and  the  baby.  He's  a  nice  baby.  You  did  just 
right  about  him,  Ambo.  Thank  you  for  that. ' '  She  mused 
a  moment.  "I  suppose  it's  absurd  to  think  he  looks  like 
Jimmy?  But  to  me  he  does.  I'm  going  to  adopt  him, 
Ambo.  You  see" — her  smile  was  wistful — "I  am  going  to 
have  a  baby  of  my  own,  after  all." 

"I'd  thought  of  adopting  him,  myself,"  I  babbled;  "but 
of  course " 

"Of  course,"  said  Susan. 

In  so  many  subtle  ways  she  had  made  it  clear  to  me.  I 
had  disappointed  her;  revealed  a  blindness,  a  weakness, 
she  would  never  be  able  to  forget.  In  my  hotel  room  that 
night  I  faced  it  out  and  accepted  my  punishment  as  just. 


278  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

Just — but  terrible.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  in  life  so  terrible 
as  to  know  oneself  utterly  and  finally  alone. 


IX 

On  the  night  of  the  eighth  of  March  the  Gothas,  so  long 
expected,  returned;  to  be  met  this  time  by  a  persistent 
"barrage  fire  from  massed  75 's,  which  proved,  however,  little 
more  than  the  good  beginnings  of  a  really  competent 
defense.  Many  bombs  fell  within  the  fortifications,  and  we 
who  dwelt  there  needed  no  other  proof  that  the  problem 
of  the  defense  of  Paris  against  air  raids  had  not  yet  suc- 
cessfully been  solved. 

There  were  thickening  rumors,  too,  of  an  imminent  Ger- 
man attack  in  force.  Things  were  not  going  well  at  the 
Front.  It  was  common  gossip  that  there  was  division 
among  the  Allies ;  the  British  and  French  commands  were 
pulling  at  cross  purposes;  Italy  seemed  impotent;  Russia 
had  collapsed;  the  Americans  were  unknown  factors,  and 
slow  to  arrive.  It  began  to  seem  possible — to  the  disaffected 
or  naturally  pessimistic,  more  than  possible — that  the  Prus- 
sian mountebank  might  make  good  his  anachronistic  boast 
to  wear  down  and  conquer  the  world. 

Even  the  weather  seemed  to  fight  for  his  pinchbeck 
empire;  it  was  continuously  dry,  and  for  the  season  in 
Northern  France  extraordinarily  clear.  By  its  painful 
contrast  with  our  common  anxieties,  the  unseasonable 
beauty  of  those  March  days  and  nights  weighted  as  if  with 
lead  the  sense  of  threat,  of  impending  calamity,  that 
pressed  upon  us  and  chilled  us  and  made  desperate  our 
hearts. 

I  saw  Susan  daily.  She  did  not  avoid  me  and  was  never 
unkind,  but  I  felt  that  she  took  little  comfort  or  pleasure 
from  my  society.  Mona  Leslie,  rather  huffed  than  chast- 
ened, I  fear,  by  Susan's  quiet  aloofness,  had  returned  to 
her  duties  at  Dunkirk.  I  was  glad  to  have  her  go,  to  be 
rid  of  the  embarrassment  of  her  explanations  and  counsel — 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  279 

to  be  rid,  above  all,  of  the  pointedly  sympathetic  and  pity- 
ing pressure  of  her  hand.  Except  for  a  slight  limp,  Susan 
now  got  about  freely  and  was  busily  engaged  with  our  Red 
Cross  directors  on  plans  for  a  nursing-home  for  the  children 
of  repatriated  refugees — a  home  where  these  little  victims 
of  frightfulness  and  malnutrition  could  be  built  up  again 
into  happy  soundness  of  body  and  mind,  into  the  vigorous 
life-stuff  needed  for  the  future  of  France  and  of  the  world. 

A  too-medieval  chateau  at  ,  in  Provence,  had  been 

offered;  and  plans  for  its  immediate  alteration  and  mod- 
ernization were  being  drawn. 

The  whole  thing,  from  the  first,  had  been  Susan's  idea, 
and  she  was  to  have  charge  of  it  all — once  the  required 
plant  was  ready — as  became  its  creator.  But  indeed,  in  the 
interim,  she  had  simply  taken  charge  of  our  Red  Cross 
architects  and  buyers  and  builders  and  engineers,  and  was 
sweeping  things  forward  with  a  tactful  but  exceedingly 
high  hand.  She  meant  that  the  interim  should  be,  if  pos- 
sible, brief. 

"I  want  results,"  said  Susan ;  "we  can  discuss  the  rules 
we've  broken  afterward.  The  children  are  fading  out  now, 
and  some  of  them  will  be  dead  or  hopelessly  withered  before 
we  can  aid  them.  Let's  get  some  kind  of  home  and  get  it 
running;  with  a  couple  of  good  doctors,  an  orthopedist,  a 
dental  expert,  and  the  right  nurses — and  I'll  pick  them, 
please ! — we  can  make  out  somehow,  'most  anywhere. ' ' 

There  was  no  standing  against  her.  It  was  presently 
plain  to  all  of  us  in  the  Paris  headquarters  that  this  nurs- 
ing home  was  to  be  put  through  in  record  time,  Germans 
or  no  Germans,  and  no  matter  who  fell  by  the  wayside! 
And,  in  spite  of  my  natural  anxiety,  I  was  soon  convinced 
that  whoever  fell,  it  would  not  be  Susan — not,  at  least, 
till  the  clear  flame  of  her  spirit  had  burned  out  the  oil  of 
her  energy  to  its  last  granted  drop. 

In  the  rare  intervals  of  these  labors,  she  was  arranging 
for  the  legal  adoption  of  James  Aulard  Kane.  No  step  of 
this  kind  is  easily  arranged  in  bureaucratic  France.  It  is 


280  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

a  difficult  land  to  be  legally  born  in  or  married  in,  or  to 
die  in — if  one  wishes  to  do  these  things,  at  least,  with  a 
certain  decency,  en  rlgle. 

Susan  complained  to  me  of  this,  wittily  scornful,  as  we 
left  the  Bed  Cross  headquarters  together  on  the  evening 
of  March  eleventh,  and  started  toward  her  hotel  down  the 
dusky  colonnade  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 

"I'm  worn  out  with  them  all!"  she  exclaimed.  "All  I 
want  is  to  take  care  of  Jimmy's  baby,  and  you'd  think  I 
was  plotting  to  upset  the  government.  I  shall,  too,  if  some 
of  these  French  officials  don't  presently  exhibit  more  com- 
mon sense.  It  ought  to  be  upset — and  simplified.  Oh,  I 
wish  I  lived  in  a  woman 's  republic,  Ambo !  Things  would 
happen  there,  even  if  they  were  wrong!  No  woman  has 
patience  enough  to  be  bureaucratic." 

"True,"  I  chimed;  "and  you're  right  about  men,  all 
round.  "We  're  hopeless  incompetents  at  statecraft  and  such 
things,  at  running  a  reasonable  world — but  we  can  cook! 
And  what  you  need  for  a  change  from  all  this  is  a  good 
dinner — a  real  dinner!  It  will  renew  your  faith  in  the 
eternal  masculine — and  we  haven't  had  a  bat,  Susan,  or 
talked  nonsense,  for  years  and  years!  Come  on,  dear! 
Let's  have  a  perfectly  shameless  bat  to-night  and  damn 
the  consequences !  "What  do  you  say  ?" 

"I  say — damn  the  consequences,  Ambo!  Let's!  Why, 
I'd  forgotten  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  bat  left  in  the 
world!" 

"But  there  is!    Look — there's  even  a  taxi  to  begin  on!" 

I  hailed  it;  I  even  secured  it;  and  we  were  presently 
clanking  and  grinding  on  our  way — in  what  must  have 
been  an  authentic  relic  from  the  First  Battle  of  the  Marne 
— toward  the  one  restaurant  in  Paris.  Unto  each  man, 
native  or  alien,  who  knows  his  Paris,  God  grants  but  one, 
though  it  is  never  the  same.  "Well,  I  make  no  secret  about 
it;  my  passion  is  deep  and  openly  proclaimed.  For  me, 
the  one  restaurant  in  Paris  is  Laperouse;  I  am  long  past 
discussing  the  claims  of  rivals.  It  is — simply  and  finally — 
Laperouse.  .  .  . 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  231 

"We  descended  before  an  ancient,  dingy  building  on  th? 
Quai  des  Grands-Augustins,  passed  through  a  cramped 
doorway  into  a  tiny,  ill-lit  foyer,  climbed  a  steep  narrow 
stairs,  and  were  presently  installed  in  a  corner  of  the  small 
corner  dining-room,  with  our  backs  neighborly  against  the 
wall.  In  this  room  there  happened  that  night  to  be  but 
one  other  diner;  a  small,  bloated,  bullet-headed  civilian, 
with  prominent  staring  eyes;  a  man  of  uncertain  age,  but 
nearing  fifty  at  a  guess.  We  paid  little  attention  to  him. 
at  first,  though  it  soon  became  evident  to  us  that  he  was 
enjoying  a  Pantagruelian  banquet  in  lonely  state,  deliber- 
ately gorging  himself  with  the  richest  and  most  incongru- 
ously varied  food.  Conime  boissons,  he  had  always  before 
him  two  bottles,  one  of  Chateau  T quern  and  one  of  Fine 
Champagne;  and  he  alternated  gulps  of  thick  yellow  sweet- 
ness with  drams  of  neat  brandy.  Neither  seemed  to  pro- 
duce upon  him  any  perceptible  effect,  though  he  emitted 
from  time  to  time  moist  porcine  snufflings  of  fleshy  satis- 
faction. Rather  a  disgusting  little  man,  we  decided;  and 
so  dismissed  him.  .  .  . 

To  the  ordering  of  our  own  dinner  I  gave  a  finicky  care 
which  greatly  amused  Susan,  for  whom  food,  I  regret  to 
say,  has  always  remained  an  indifferent  matter;  it  is  the 
one  aesthetic  flaw  in  her  otherwise  so  delicately  organized 
being.  In  spite  of  every  effort  on  my  part  to  educate  her 
palate,  five  or  six  nibbles  at  almost  anything  edible  remains 
her  idea  of  a  banquet — provided  the  incidental  talk  prove 
sufficiently  companionable  or  stimulating. 

That  night,  however,  do  what  we  would,  our  talk 
together  was  neither  precisely  the  one  nor  the  other.  We 
both,  rather  desperately,  I  think,  made  a  supreme  effort 
to  approximate  the  free  affectionate  chatter  of  old  days; 
but  such  things  never  come  of  premeditation,  and  there 
were  ghosts  at  the  table  with  us.  It  would  not  work. 

"Oh,  what's  the  use,  Ambo!"  Susan  finally  exclaimed, 
•with  a  weary  sigh.  "We  can't  do  it  this  way!  Sister's 
here,  and  Jeanne-Marie — as  close  to  me  as  if  I  had  seen 
her  and  known  her  always ;  and  maybe — Phil.  But  Jimmy's 


282  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

here  most  of  all!  There's  no  use  pretending  we're  for- 
getting, when  we're  not.  You  and  I  aren't  built  for  for- 
getting, Ambo.  We'll  never  forget." 

"No,  dear;  we'll  never  forget." 

"Let's  remember,  then,"  said  Susan;  "remember  all  we 
can." 

For  a  long  hour  thereafter  we  rather  mused  together 
than  conversed.  Constraint  slipped  from  us,  as  those  we 
had  best  loved  came  back  to  us,  warm  and  near  and  living 
in  our  thoughts  of  them.  No  taint  of  false  sentiment,  of 
sorrow  willfully  indulged,  marred  these  memories.  Trying 
to  be  happy  we  had  failed;  now,  strangely,  we  came  near 
to  joy. 

"We  haven't  lost  them!"  exclaimed  Susan.  "Not  any 
part  of  them ;  we  never  can. ' ' 

"They  haven't  lost  us,  then?" 

"  No ' ' — she  pondered  it — ' '  they  haven 't  lost  us. ' ' 

"You  mean  it,  Susan — literally?  You  believe  they  still 
live— out  there?" 

"And  you?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Poor  Ambo,"  murmured  Susan;  then,  with  a  quick, 
dancing  gleam:  "But  as  Jimmy 'd  say,  dear,  you  can  just 
take  it  from  me!" 

She  spoke  of  him  as  if  present  beside  her.  A  silence  fell 
between  us  and  deepened. 

The  small,  bullet-headed  man  had  just  paid  his  extrava- 
gant bill,  distributed  his  largesse,  and  was  about  to  depart. 
He  was  being  helped  into  a  sumptuous  overcoat,  with  a 
deep  collar  of  what  I  took  to  be  genuine  Russian  sables. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  officiously  tended  leave-taking  to 
stir  my  interest ;  my  eyes  rested  on  him  idly  for  a  moment, 
that  was  all.  The  head  waiter,  two  undcr-waiters,  and  a 
solemn  little  buttons  followed  him  out  to  the  stair-head, 
with  every  expression  of  gratitude  and  esteem.  Passing 
from  sight,  he  passed  from  my  thoughts,  leaving  with  me 
only  a  vague  physical  repulsion  that  barely  outlasted  his 
departure. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  283 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think  Phil  has  done?"  Susan  was 
asking. 

"Phil?"    The  name  had  startled  me  back  to  attention. 

"I  believe  he's  made  himself  one  of  them — the  peasants, 
I  mean — in  some  remote,  dirty,  half -starved  Russian  vil- 
lage." 

"Why?  That's  an  odd  fancy,  dear.  And  it  isn't  much 
like  him.  Phil's  too  clear-headed,  or  stiff -headed,  for  such 
mysticism." 

"How  little  you  really  know  him,  then,"  she  replied. 
' '  He 's  been  steering  since  birth,  I  feel,  toward  some  great 
final  renunciation.  I  believe  he's  made  it,  now.  You'll 
see,  Ambo.  Some  day  we'll  hear  of  a  new  prophet,  away 
there  in  the  East — where  all  our  living  dreams  come  from ! 
You'll  see!" 

"  '  In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar  ? '  "  I  quoted,  smiling 
sadly  enough;  and  Susan's  smile  wistfully  echoed  mine, 
even  while  she  raised  a  warning  finger  at  me. 

' '  Oh,  you  of  little  faith ! ' '  she  said  quite  simply. 


We  had  barely  stepped  out  from  the  narrow  doorway  of 
the  restaurant  into  a  tenuous,  moon-saturated  mist,  a  low- 
lying  diaphaneity  that  left  the  upper  air-lanes  openly  clear, 
when  the  sirens  were  wailing  again  from  every  quarter  of 
the  city.  .  .  . 

"They're  coming  early  to-night!"  I  exclaimed.  "Well, 
that  ends  all  hope  for  a  taxi  home !  We  must  find  an  abri." 

"Nonsense!  We'll  walk  quietly  back  along  the  river. 
Unless" — she  teased  me — "you  really  are  afraid,  Ambo?" 

I  tucked  her  arm  firmly  into  mine.  ' '  So  you  won 't  stum- 
ble, Mile,  la  Beformee!" 

' '  But  it  is  a  nuisance  to  be  lame ! ' '  she  protested :  "  I  do 
envy  you  your  two  good  legs,  M.  le  Capitaine." 

We  made  our  way  slowly  along  the  embankment,  pass- 
ing the  Pont  des  Arts,  and  two  shadowy  lovers  paced  on 
before  us,  blotted  together,  oblivious  of  the  long,  eerie  rise 


284  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

and  fall  of  the  sirens ;  every  twenty  yards  or  so  they 
stopped  in  their  tracks,  as  by  a  common  impulsion,  and 
were  momentarily  lost  to  time  in  a  passionate  embrace. 

Neither  Susan  nor  I  spoke  of  these  lovers,  who  turned 
aside  to  pass  under  the  black  arches  of  the  Institute,  into 
the  Hue  de  Seine.  .  .  . 

As  we  neared  the  Pont  du  Carrousel  the  barrage  began, 
at  first  distant  and  muffled — the  outer  guns ;  then  suddenly 
and  grimly  nearer.  An  incessant  twinkle  of  tiny  star-white 
points — the  bursts  of  high-explosive  shells — drifted  toward 
us  from  the  north.  So  light  was  the  mist,  it  did  not  ob- 
scure them ;  it  barely  dimmed  the  moon. 

''Hold  on!"  I  said,  checking  Susan;  "this  is  something 
new!  They're  firing  to-night  straight  across  Paris."  The 
glitter  of  star-points  seemed  in  a  moment  to  fill  all  the 
northern  sky;  the  noise  of  the  barrage  trebled,  trebled 
again. 

"Why,  it's  drum  fire!"  cried  Susan.  "Oh,  how 
beautiful!" 

"Yes;  but  we'll  get  on  faster,  all  the  same!  I'll  help 
you !  Come ! ' ' 

I  put  my  arm  firmly  about  her  waist  and  almost  lifted 
her  along  with  me.  By  the  time  we  had  reached  the  Pont 
Royal,  the  high-explosive  bursts  were  directly  over  us; 
the  air  rocked  with  them.  I  detected,  too,  at  intervals, 
another  more  ominous  sound — that  deep,  pulsing  growl 
•which  no  one  having  once  heard  it  could  ever  mistake. 

' '  Gothas, ' '  I  growled  back  at  them, ' '  flying  low.  They  've 
ducked  under  the  guns!" 

And  instantly  I  swung  Susan  across  the  open  quai  to  the 
left  and  plunged  with  her  up  an  inky  defile,  the  Rue  du  Bac. 

"Where  are  you  taking  m-^?"  she  demanded,  half  breath- 
less, dragging  against  my  arm. 

"To  the  first  available  cibri,"  I  cried  at  her,  under  the 
sky's  reckless  tumult.  "Don't  stop  to  argue  about  it!" 

But  she  halted  me  right  by  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de 
Lille.  "If  it's  going  to  be  a  bad  raid,  Ambo,  I  must  get 
to  Jimmy's  baby — I  must  I" 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  285 

"Impossible!  It's  at  least  two  miles — and  this  isn't 
going  to  be  a  picnic,  Susan!  You're  coming  with  me!" 
I  tightened  my  arm  about  her;  every  instant  now  I  ex- 
pected the  shattering  climax  of  the  bombs. 

Then,  just  as  we  crossed  the  Rue  de  Lille,  something 
halted  me  in  my  turn.  About  a  hundred  yards  at  my 
right,  down  toward  the  Gare  D'Orsay,  and  from  the  very 
middle  of  the  black  street-chasm,  a  keen,  bladelike  ray 
of  light  flashed  once  and  again — sharp,  vertical  rapier- 
thrusts — straight  up  through  the  thin  mist-veil  into  the 
treacherous  sky.  Followed,  doubtless  from  a  darkened  up- 
per window,  a  woman's  frantic  shriek:  "Espion — espion!'* 

Pistol  shots  next — and  rough  cries — and  a  pounding 
charge  of  feet.  .  .  .  Right  into  my  arms  he  floundered,  and 
I  tackled  him  and  fell  with  him  to  the  cobbles  and  fought 
him  there  blindly,  feeling  for  his  throat.  This  lasted  but 
a  moment.  Gendarmes  tore  us  apart,  in  a  brief  erossing 
flash  of  electric-torches — and  I  caught  just  one  glimpse  of 
a  bare  bullet-head,  of  a  bloated,  discolored  face,  of  promi- 
nent staring  eyes,  maddened  by  fear.  There  could  be  no 
mistake.  It  was  our  little  man  of  the  Pantagruelian  ban- 
quet. We  had  watched  him  eating  his  last  fabulous  meal 
— his  farewell  to  Egypt. 

And  that  is  all  I  just  then  clearly  remember.  ...  I  am 
told  that  nine  bombs  fell  in  a  sweeping  circle  throughout 
this  district;  one  of  them,  in  the  very  courtyard  of  the 
War  Office;  one  of  them — of  300  kilos — perhaps  a  square 
from  where  we  stood.  There  was  a  rush  past  of  hurtling 
fragments — glass,  chimney-tiles,  chips  of  masonry,  que 
sais-jef — and  even  this  I  report  only  because  I  have  been 
credibly  so  informed. 

What  next  I  experienced  was  pain,  unlocalized  at  first, 
yet  somehow  damnably  concentrated:  pure,  white-hot  es- 
sence of  pain.  And  through  the  stiff  hell  of  it  I  was,  and 
was  not,  aware  t>f  someone^-some  one — some  one — murmur- 
ing love  and  pity  and  mortal  anguish.  .  .  . 

"Ambo — you  wouldn't  leave  me — not  you!  Not  yon, 
Ambo — not  alone.  ..." 


286  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

The  pain  dimmed  off  from  me  in  an  ebbing,  dull-red 
wave;  great  coils  of  palpable  darkness  swirled  dowc  upon 
me  to  smother  me;  I  struggled  to  rise  from  beneath  them 
— fling  them  off.  .  .  .  From  an  infinite  distance,  a  woman's 
cry  threaded  through  them,  like  a  needle  through  mufflings 
of  wool,  and  pricked  me  to  an  instant,  a  single  instant, 
of  clear  consciousness.  I  opened  my  eyes  on  Susan's;  I 
strove  to  answer  them,  tell  her  I  understood.  Susan  says 
that  I  did  answer  them — that  I  even  smiled.  But  I  can 
feel  back  now  only  to  a  vast  sinking  away,  depth  under 
depth  under  depth,  down — down — down — down.  .  .  . 

XI 

The  rest,  however,  I  thank  God,  is  not  yet  silence ;  though 
it  is  high  time  to  make  an  end  of  this  long  and  all  too 
faulty  record. 

They  did  various  things  to  me  at  the  hospital,  from  time 
to  time ;  they  removed  hard  substances  from  me  that  were 
distinctly  out  of  place  in  my  interior;  they  also  removed 
certain  portions  of  my  authentic  anatomy — three  fingers  of 
my  left  hand,  among  others,  and  my  left  leg  to  the  knee. 
This  was  not  in  itself  agreeable,  and  I  shall  always  regret 
their  loss;  yet  those  weeks  of  progressive  operation  and 
tardy  recuperation  were,  up  to  that  period,  the  happiest, 
the  most  fulfilled  weeks  of  my  life.  And  surely  egotism 
can  go  no  farther !  For  these  weeks  of  my  triumphant  hap- 
piness were  altogether  the  darkest,  saddest,  cruellest  weeks 
of  the  war.  In  a  world  without  light,  my  heart  sang  in 
my  breast,  sang  hallelujahs,  and  would  not  be  cast  down. 
Susan  loved  me — me — had  always  loved  me !  Rheims  soon 
might  fall,  Amiens  might  fall,  the  channel  ports,  Paris, 
London,  the  Seven  Seas — the  "World!  "What  did  it  mat- 
ter !  Susan  loved  me — loved  me ! 

And  even  now — though  Susan  is  ashamed  for  me  that  I 
Can  say  it — though  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  that 
I  can  say  it — though  I  wonder  that  I  am  not — though  I 
try  to  be — well,  I  am  not  ashamed ! 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  287 

Final  Note,  by  Susan — insisted  upon:  "But  all  the  same, 
secretly,  he  is  ashamed.  For  there's  nobody  in  the  world 
like  Ambo,  whether  for  dearness  or  general  absurdity. 
Why  shouldn't  he  have  been  a  little  happy,  if  he  could 
manage  it,  throughout  those  interminable  weeks  of  physi- 
cal pain?  He  suffered  day  and  night,  preferring  not  to 
be  kept  under  morphine  too  constantly.  I  won't  say  he 
was  a  hero;  he  was,  but  there's  nothing  to  be  puffed  up 
about  nowadays  in  that.  If  the  war  has  proved  anything, 
it  is  that  in  nearly  every  man,  when  his  particular  form 
of  Zero  Hour  sounds  for  him,  some  kind  of  a  self-despising 
hero  is  waiting,  and  ready  to  act  or  endure  or  be  broken 
and  cast  away.  We  all  know  that  now.  It's  the  corner- 
stone for  a  possible  Utopia:  no,  it's  more  than  that — it's 
the  whole  foundation.  But  I  didn't  mean  to  say  so  when 
I  started  this  note. 

"All  I  meant  to  say  was  that  you  must  never  take 
Ambo  au  pied  de  la  letire.  I'm  not  in  the  least  as  he's 
hymned  me — but  that,  surely,  you've  guessed  between  the 
lines.  What  is  much  more  important  is  that  he's  not  in 
the  least  as  he  has  painted  himself.  But  unless  I  were 
to  rewrite  his  whole  book  for  him — which  wouldn't  be 
tactful  in  an  otherwise  spoiled  and  contented  wife — I  could 
never  make  this  clear,  or  do  my  strange,  too  sensitive  man 
the  full  justice  he  deserves.  He's — oh,  but  what's  the 
use!  There  isn't  anybody  in  the  world  like  Ambo." 


xn 

More  than  a  year  has  already  passed  since  those  dark- 
bright  days,  the  spring  of  1918.  Down  here  in  quiet,  sil- 
very Provence,  at  our  nursing-home  for  children — I  call 
it  ours — the  last  of  the  cherry  blossoms  are  falling  now  in 
our  walled  orchard  close.  As  I  write,  James  Aulard  Kane 
sits — none  too  steadily — among  a  snow  of  petals,  and 
sweeps  them  together  in  miniature  drifts  with  two  very 
grubby  little  hands.  He  is  a  likely  infant  and  knows  defi- 
nitely what  he  wants  from  life,  which  is  mostly  food.  He 


288  THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN 

talks  nothing  but  French — that  is,  he  emits  the  usual  baby 
grunts  and  snortings  in  a  funny  harsh  accent  caught  from 
his  Marseillaise  nurse.  Susan  is  far  too  busy  to  improve 
this  accent  as  she  would  like  to  do:  perhaps  it  would  be 
simpler  to  say  that  she  is  far  too  busy.  She  is  the  queen-bee 
of  this  country  hive ;  and  I — I  am  a  harmless  enough  drone. 
They  let  me  dawdle  about  here  and  do  this  and  that ;  but 
the  sun  grows  more  powerful  daily,  and  I  sleep  a  good  deal 
now  through  the  warmer  hours.  I  am  haunted  by  fewer 
mysterious  twinges,  here  and  there,  when  I  sleep. . . . 

Meanwhile,  the  world-cauldron  bubbles,  and  the  bub- 
bles keep  bursting,  and  I  read  of  their  bursting  and  shake 
my  head.  When  a  man  begins  shaking  his  head  over  the 
news  of  the  day,  he  is  done  for;  a  back  number.  Susan 
never  shakes  her  head ;  and  it's  rather  hard  on  her,  I  think, 
to  be  the  wife  of  a  back  number.  But  she 's  far  too  thought- 
ful of  me  ever  to  seem  to  mind. 

Only  yesterday  I  quoted  some  lines  to  her,  from  Coven- 
try Patmore.  Susan  doesn't  like  Coventry  Patmore;  the 
mystical  Unknown  Eros  he  celebrates  strikes  her  as — well, 
perhaps  I  had  better  not  go  into  that.  But  the  lines  I 
quoted — they  had  been  much  in  my  mind  lately — were 
these: 

For  want  of  me  the  world's  course  will  not  fail; 

When  all  its  work  is  done  the  lie  shall  rot; 
The  truth  is  great  and  shall  prevail 

When  none  cares  whether  it  prevail  or  not. 

' '  Stuff !  We  do  care ! ' '  said  Susan.  ' '  And  it  won 't  pre- 
vail, either,  unless  we  make  it.  Who 's  working  harder  than, 
you  to  make  it  prevail,  I  should  like  to  know!" 

You  see  how  she  includes  me.  ...  So  this  book  is  my 
poor  tribute  to  her  thoughtfulness,  this  Book  of  Susan. 

But  sometimes  I  sit  and  wonder.  Shall  we  ever,  I  won- 
der, go  back  to  my  ancestral  mansion  on  Hillhouse  Avenue 
and  quietly  settle  down  there  to  the  old  securities,  the 


THE  BOOK  OF  SUSAN  289 

old,  slightly  disdainful  calm  ?  I  doubt  it.  Tumps,  ancient 
valetudinarian,  softened  by  age;  Togo,  rheumatic,  but 
steeped  in  his  deeply  racial,  his  Oriental  indifferentism — 
they  are  the  inheritors  of  that  august  tradition,  and  they 
become  it  worthily.  For  them  it  exists  and  is  enough ;  for 
lis  it  is  shattered.  Phil,  a  later  Waring,  is  lost  in  Russia. 
Jimmy  is  gone.  But  Susan  will  do,  I  know,  more  than 
one  woman's  part  to  help  in  creating  a  more  livable  world 
for  his  son,  and  I  shall  gain  some  little  strength  for  that 
coming  labor,  spending  it  as  I  can.  It  will  be  an  interest- 
ing world  for  those  who  survive ;  a  dusk  chaos  just  paling 
eastward.  I  shall  hardly  see  even  the  beginnings  of  dawn. 
But — with  Susan  beside  me — I  shall  have  lived. 

Farewell,  then,  Hillhouse  Avenue!  .  ,  .  Make  way  for 
Birch  Street! 


(THE  END) 


A     000114120     9 


